Deduced by Sherlock
by JustFemke
Summary: When Monica Smith moves into 221c Baker Street, she didn't expect that the long, dark haired man called Sherlock Holmes could change her life so much. Sherlock/OC romance.
1. Meeting Sherlock

**PREFACE**

**Title: **Deduced by Sherlock

**Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Monica Smith, Mrs Hudson,...

**Rating: **T (For now)

**Warnings/Triggers:** Some mentioning of being 'almost' raped, maybe Sherlock just being a dick, and some Belgian chocolate (which can potentially increase hunger).

**Spoilers:** Maybe spoilers of season one and the beginning of season 2 later on, but NEVER of the last episode. That's too painful to be reminded of, right?

**Pairings:** Sherlock/OC (Sherlock Holmes & Monica Smith)

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile).  
If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck.

**Idea: **This story, for the 2 first chapters, is based on the fanfic of HogwartsScribbler called "221C Baker Street". I found the beginning very good and wanted to start my story like she started hers. Don't expect that everything in the first 2 chapters is the same! There will be some differences and my OC character is totally different. She can take credit for the things that are the same. I have permission to use her ideas from those chapters so don't think that I'm stealing them here...

**Summary:** When Monica moves into 221c Baker Street, she didn't expect that the long, dark haired man called Sherlock Holmes could change her life so much. Sherlock/OC romance.

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

Don't worry if you feel the need for some more information about the character Monica, I will always make sure you can see her outfit from the chapter that I post on Polyvore. If you feel like some good 'Sherlock and Monica' music I recommend you to listen to "The fire theft by Uncle Mountain", "Can't help falling in love with you by Ingrid Michaelson" and "Animal by Neon Trees". (Just listen to it, you will love it). If you have questions for me, please send me a message on Tumblr. (The link to my Tumblr blog is on my profile).

**Monica's outfit: **This is what Monica is wearing in this chapter:(to see the outfit go to my profile for the link). The girl in the picture is Monica (in a manner of speaking). If you want to let her wear something specific, let me know in a PM or in a message on Tumblr.

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them. **

* * *

**Chapter 1: Meeting Sherlock**

It was a cold, rainy, typical winter day in London.

Mrs Hudson had been really busy with 221 Baker Street for 2 days now; she had finally cleaned up the damp in the basement flat and was now looking for somebody to rent it.  
Already there were many people coming to the flat, and all were again rejected... or more accurately- scared away. Who else could have provided that than Sherlock Holmes?

"That's already the seventh one who went home crying, Sherlock," his friend John Watson yelled angrily, brandishing a pointed finger.

Sherlock spared him a glance, with his violin tucked under his chin.

"And every one of them weren't worth staying here in 221C- that last one was a pickpocket. She stole your watch when you gave her a hand," he answered simply.

John looked surprised and offended at his empty wrist. "Good lord that was my father's watch! Bugger..."

Mrs Hudson had just come upstairs, and sighed resignedly from the messy kitchen. "If you keep going on like this, Sherlock, we will never find somebody who wants to rent the flat."

John resignedly glanced down at the list with names of the people who wanted to rent the apartment.  
"There is only one person left for today," he offered hopefully, and met his flatmate's eyes.

Sherlock, simply shrugging and turning away, continued playing his violin.

"That's right," said Mrs Hudson who grabbed the paper out of John's hands."Monica Smith is her name. Lovely girl. She was so nice on the phone!"

She looked up at John. "She was really excited to see the flat. She is from Belgium, you know, but her English sounded remarkably good for a foreigner."

Sherlock made a sound of disgust on hearing that little fact.

"Oh, Sherlock, don't act like that!" said John in order to calm Sherlock down. "Maybe she _is_ really nice. And her English is good, according to Mrs Hudson. I'm sure she'll be-"

Sherlock turned his eyes to John and sneered mockingly, just as the doorbell rang. A smile appeared on the face of their landlady.

"That must be her!" she shouted on her way downstairs to the door.

John turned his head immediately to Sherlock. "Listen. You're going to act like a grown man and let the poor child finish first before you go to say something, understood?" Without waiting for an answer, he strode out to meet the two women on the landing.

Sherlock remained silent. He then set his violin on the stand, sat into the chair that was placed at the dining table, and rested his chin on his steepled fingers.

* * *

_Monica's POV_

I placed my foot onto the cold floor of the hotel room and sighed. Today was the day that I had to meet a Mrs Hudson to go to take a look at the flat 221C Baker Street.

My day started terrible. First of all, I hadn't slept the entire night. So I can't stop yawning. Secondly, I felt like crap. I felt sick, tired and achy.

I set my toiletries down by the sink. I looked into the bathroom mirror and saw that not only did I feel like crap, but also looked like it. My blonde hair, which was shoulder length, was totally messed up. My heaven blue eyes looked tired, and the bags underneath them did not help much. I quickly ran a brush through my hair.

I yawned and quickly put on some clothes. A simple light pink shirt and a skirt, with tights underneath, of course. And a warm and comfy oversized pullover. To make it look somewhat fancier I put on my black heels. Immediately it seemed like a bad idea- I looked out of the window and saw that it was raining.

_Why_ had I moved into a country with the same weather as Belgium?

As always, I put on my ring around my right index finger, and put on a little bit of eating breakfast (although you couldn't call it breakfast anymore- it was already 1pm) I felt even worse.

I looked at my watch and saw that it was time to go. Quickly I slipped on my large brown coat and took my shoulder bag with me.

...

When I arrived on Baker Street, I had to look for 221. I finally found it tucked away beside a café, jogged up the steps and rang the bell. I could hear raised voices inside.

Almost immediately an older woman opened the door and greeted me.

"Come in sweetheart, it's very cold outside isn't it?" the kind woman, whom I supposed to be Mrs Hudson, said to me.

"Thank you" I replied when she gently took my coat and led me up the stairs.

"I hope you don't mind, but before we take a look at the basement flat, I will let you meet the boys in the flat above. They are really sweet and if that goes well..." she stopped at the end of that sentence. I smiled at her to let her finish and I can't help but notice that her accent was thickly British. She just gave me a little smile and showed me the way to the flat above.

_I really don't get the point of this; it is something that they always do in England? _

Mrs Hudson opened the door of the flat and immediately I was welcomed by a man with of short stature, with blonde-grey hair and a warm smile. He stuck out his hand and friendly said "John Watson is the name."

"Monica Smith," I replied."Pleasure to meet you John Watson."

"Oh, please do call me John," he said now letting go of my hand after a slight squeeze.

"Alright, thank you." John seemed nice.

I looked over to the other man sitting in the room. He had black curls and some high, well-formed cheekbones.

I put my hand forwards indicating that I want to shake his hand, but he didn't move. Now becoming unsure of my action, I clenched my hand into a fist.

"Nice... to meet you," I said as more of a question than a statement, looking towards the other two. John shot the man another look.

"Do you _ever_ listen to me?" John turned to me. "His name is Sherlock Holmes. Don't mind him; he's always like this." John said, obviously ashamed of his friend, and embarrassed too.

Sherlock still didn't move and was staring at me intensively.I was getting pretty nervous under his gaze and was suddenly aware of how sick I was actually feeling.I sat down onto the chair on the opposite of Sherlock, and John and Mrs Hudson sat either side of him.

In order to calm myself down a little bit, I laid my hand on my stomach.

"What would you like to know about me?" I said uncomfortably, given the current situation. _Were Britons always so intense?_

"Well... Why don't you say some things about yourself? To make you feel a bit more comfortable." John asked with a smile.  
_Dammit! Couldn't__he see that I was uncomfortable enough as it is?_ _I hope he can't see that I'm feeling like shit... that's the last thing I need._

"Well," I began, leaning forward slightly and crossing my legs. "I moved into London only a few days ago. I'm 25 and I lived in Belgium before, so if I say something wrong _please_ do tell me so I can improve my English. I've already found a job so there would be no problems with paying the rent. The weather is the same as in Belgium so I know what I'm up to." This earned a chuckle from John.

"Oh, I love Belgian chocolate," cried Mrs Hudson causing to let John laugh again. Sherlock, as seened usual, stayed silent.

"I bet you get that a lot, Monica." John said cheerily.

"Yes, I have heard that before many times, but I must say that I agree" I said back with a friendly smile.

"You do sound really nice, Monica. Doesn't she, Sherlock?" John was enthusiastic. "I think you would be perfect for the flat."One second too late he realised that he made a fault by involving Sherlock in the conversation.

The man with the black curls sat up with impeccable posture and looked at me more intensely then he already had done. _And that's saying something._

"Of course she is suitable for renting the flat, but _please_ do try not to cry _too_ loudly during the night. I like to actually hear myself play my violin." he said with a sneer.

Mrs Hudson stood up abruptly and grabbed for a box of Kleenex tissues, already expecting the worst.

_Did I hear that right? Did he just say that? Why was Mrs Hudson grabbing those paper tissues for? _

"Err, sorry, but what do you mean by that?" I asked in surprise by hearing his words.

"Please Sherlock, not again!" John quickly snapped, but Sherlock had already started. _Oh God what have I let myself in for?_

Sherlock rattled off like a train. "You've recently come out of a relationship; there's a mark on your ring finger where an engagement once sat." I glanced down at my hand.

"The same ring is now on your right hand, you've kept it for sentimental reasons which show that he must have been the one to break it off.

"You've unwittingly touched your stomach multiple times. You have either had a miscarriage or an abortion." My eyes found the straight slope of my stomach. "You've come alone to another country; shows that the breakup was bad enough to drive you away from your own country in an attempt to 'escape' your current situation." I look up at Sherlock and hold his gaze.

"You have bags under your eyes what indicates that you haven't slept in days or even weeks; obviously because of the break-up/miscarriage or abortion. All together I would say that you will have some more weeks of crying yourself to sleep."

He finished his spiel with a bit of triumph and a hint of self-importance. The whole flourish was a little overwhelming.

Mrs Hudson was still clutching the Kleenex, and I could see that John was regarding me without breathing. This was obviously a common occurrence. Mrs Hudson was apparently expecting me to fall in tears, but instead I started smiling. John blinked- obviously surprised by my reaction.

"Wow... that... was quite surprising," I said astonished, "...Wow."

"Yes, John's said it all before, but go ahead and say it once more." Sherlock said, already becoming bored with the situation again. He pulled out his mobile phone from his pocket. The way he held himself still, however, indicated that he was always open to hear someone give his deductions good reviews. _Big-headed idiot._

"Well, no, that's not why I said 'wow'," I said, confused by the situation, "I mean that you got everything wrong with whatever you were doing... Is that what you do for living, guessing what people are like?" _Was it normal that a strange man was just trying to guess my life story? God, England is a little different to what I expected._

Sherlock's face drained of colour. No colour rose in it, but the cold, angry stare he gave me said it all. _He was furious. _

I started to apologise, but he yelled in my face.

"What do you _mean_ I got everything wrong?!" He rose from his seat in fury- _definitely_ not used to guessing wrong.

I raised my hands in surrender. "I'm sorry Mr Holmes... surely you don't know anybody who you've deduced incorrectly before?" I asked, trying to remain cool with the fact that I had probably ear damage by now. My ears were ringing in any case.

Looking to John and Mrs Hudson, I saw John only grinning with amusement. His head kept turning back and forth between Sherlock and I. Mrs Hudson quickly stood up, not wanting to let the two of us argue about this for the whole evening.

"Well would you like to take a look at the flat now, sweetheart?" She asked kindly, setting the Kleenex on the table. John chuckled. Sherlock glared, still standing.

I nodded and followed her outside of the room to the landing. I heard Sherlock murmuring to John.  
"_That is _not_ possible... Not possible at _all_!"_

I smiled again. This should become interesting.

* * *

**So what did you think of the first chapter? Was it good? Bad?**

**Leave your thoughts in a review- It only takes two minutes to write one and it would make my day! Reviews are the reason that I keep writing on this fic so if it doesn't get some reviews I will easily have the urge to stop writing on it.  
I hope you enjoyed it and let me know if you did! Ideas are always welcome and I will always write your name in the chapter if you do leave a good idea. **

**_Review and make my day! _**

**See you later and make sure you take a look at Monica's outfit on Polyvore!**

**(Don't forget to follow this fic so you can stay updated for further updates.) **


	2. Moving in

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**So the first chapter got 6 reviews! Yaaay for me and Anna! We really love getting those so please keep reviewing!**

**a-shadow-of-221b: I will try to write faster, but look, I said once in a week and here I am posting another chapter after only one day. Haha, but don't think that will always happen. I will not always be able to do that... I was sick so I could write at it at home. I'm just hoping that I get better haha (:.**

**Guest: Please do explain the sarcastic laugh.**

**TheMysteriousGeek2345: Of course I will keep writing, thank you for the review!**

**the221bpanda: Thank you sweetie!**

**hiddles: I hope you will keep reading and reviewing! It's just the way I write haha (:.**

**Tony's Captain: All reviews are welcome! It is what you said, I'm not Sherlock Holmes and also not sir Conan Doyle so excuse me if my deductions are not that good, but I try and maybe I will get better at it (:. I know that he could have noticed... but would it be that fun if you already knew a lot about her? I hope that after this chapter you know why he maybe didn't see it! And thank you for your good comment too!**

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 2: Moving in**

John's eyebrows could not reach any higher. "So... You've never met someone who didn't fit your deductions?" John asked, perplexed. This was certainly a development.

"No John! But it's impossible! I _can't_ be wrong!" Sherlock cried, pacing back and forth in front of the mantelpiece. He was bordering on manic. "I cannot be wrong. She is probably embarrassed. Just embarrassed..." He suddenly gasped with enlightenment.  
"That's _it_! She's just an idiot! All of you are; you and your silly emotions!" John's glare didn't go unnoticed. "I'll prove it!" Sherlock shouted petulantly, as if he were a seven year old child. There may have even been a stamp of his foot.

John snapped. "No! _No_ Sherlock, you will _not_!" Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but was interrupted.  
"_I said no!_ Listen to me, for once!" Silence fell at the Captain's brief flash of anger, and Sherlock's jaw shut with an audible snap. He knew better that to cross this soldier when he was angry.

Sighing, John sat down in his chair. "Look, just give the poor girl some space? Even _you _could see that she was obviously ill at ease when you said all of that... Mrs Hudson and I are used to your ways, Sherlock. Just please give her time." He pleaded- Monica was a nice girl. "Whatever her reasoning, it's obvious that she's a little self-conscious." John pointed out to his friend.

Sherlock remained silent. John tried again. "Please?"

With a whip of his silk dressing gown, Sherlock swept up his violin and stormed heavy-footed to the hallway. John grabbed the paper beside him, and waited momentarily.

Sure enough, the door to Sherlock's bedroom slammed.

Opening the Daily Mail but not reading it, all that John could wonder was what the hell his friend was going to do.

**MONICA'S POV**

I wearily looked around in the small basement flat. I was tired, but not unenthusiastic.

Mrs Hudson fidgeted behind me, nervously. "I know it is not much, my dear, but I did my best to decorate it as well as possible-"

"It's perfect Mrs Hudson." I gave her a warm smile. "It already feels like home." And it did.

Obviously, she tried to make it look a bit modern. The wallpaper had a Moccasin colour and the curtains were white. Warm, but neutral and practical.

I couldn't quite put my finger on_ why_, but it was just like it was made for me. I slowly pivoted, drinking everything thirstily.

_Perfect. It's all perfect! _ _The colours, the flat, the house, Mrs Hudson..._

I walked to the little kitchen that was also new. The flat was already furnished and everything seemed to match. I strolled back out, my heels clicking slightly on the new wooden floor, and I noticed a door, ajar, to my left.

"Can I take a look here?" I indicated with a pointed finger, unsure.

Mrs Hudson nodded enthusiastically. "Yes of course, sweetheart! Take all the time you need, you are the first one to see it." She couldn't stop beaming, and it was infectious. "As you can see I tried to make the flat as bright as possible, so you don't notice the lack of windows..."

I was impressed by that presence of mind- the lady knew what she was doing.

Immediately, I thought the main bedroom was gorgeous. A door on the opposite wall connected to the bathroom for more privacy. _Lovely!_

"So, my dear, what do you think?"

_What do I _think_?!_

"Oh god, Mrs Hudson! It is beautiful!" I spun on the spot to face her, and couldn't contain my excitement. "I would love to rent it from you! And of course I will pay for the furniture that you have put in it! All of it is _wonderful!_" Nearly yelling, my body started to vibrate animatedly.

"Oh listen to you! Don't worry my dear; the furniture is free, just for you." She smiled, with a small wink. "Think of it as a welcome present, because you will have to deal with... well, with the boys upstairs." The exasperation in her voice made me giggle.

"Mrs Hudson, they won't be a problem! _Definitely_ not!" I laughed whilst I hugged her tightly. She patted my back in a clumsily affectionate way.

"Do you think you would like to move in tomorrow? I know it's very soon, sweetheart, but just so you can settle as quickly as possible?" She wrung her hands. "I don't want to rush anything but-"

"That would be lovely!" _This woman is so adorable. "_I will pack my stuff tonight and I'll be here at around ten tomorrow morning!" I was so glad that I found a flat that I couldn't stop thinking about the move.

Once I had signed for everything, we enjoyed a lovely cup of tea (_I feel so British already..._) and I returned to the hotel, to start packing my things into my suitcases.

When I was finished I went to bed but sleep once again wouldn't come.

But this time, it was for excitement.

...

9am rolled around and I was looking out of my hotel window. This was the last day that I would be here, and then my address would be 221C Baker Street, London, NW1.

For the last time, I went to the little bathroom and started putting on some clothes.

Today, I decided to wear a pair of simple skinny jeans, an oversized T-shirt and a knitted jumper.

I still wasn't feeling alright, so I decided not to eat. _As per usual._

Dragging a hairbrush through my long, I tied it up into a ponytail and as habit, I put my ring back around my right index, followed by slipping on my high heels again.

I shrugged on my large brown coat like yesterday and slung my bag onto my shoulder. _It's not as if the weather is going to get any better._

Dragging my suitcases with me downstairs, I handed my key in to the concierge, and headed out to a waiting cab

"Would you like me to help with that, Ma'am?" the friendly cab driver asked me. Surprised, I nodded my head and helped him lift them neatly into the boot of the car.

Back behind the wheel, the driver smiled at me in the rear-view mirror. "Where to, love?" _Goodness, that Cockney accent is brilliant._

"221 Baker Street, please."

...

When I arrived, I just saw Mrs Hudson leaving the house.

"Monica! Hello sweetheart, you okay?" I smiled and assured her that I was. She continued. "I'm just going to buy some groceries. I'll be back in the afternoon, so I'll make dinner for everyone to get each other know some more." she said in a hurry. I laughed, and let her carry on her way.

"Lovely, thank you! I'll see you later, Mrs Hudson!" I said whilst I somewhat struggled with my suitcases up the steps to the door. I looked up, and she had clambered up past me. I would say she bounded, but she seemed hindered by her left hip.

Opening the door for me, Mrs Hudson called for John and Sherlock to come help me.

I wanted to say that I didn't need their help, and especially not from Sherlock, but John was already on his way downstairs.

Mrs Hudson called a farewell, and descended the outside steps again. John reached me and greeted me once more.

"Hey, Monica! I'll call Sherlock to help you with that large one; my shoulder is hurting again today." John seemed always so friendly, and was already putting his hand on my white suitcase.

"Oh don't worry, I think I can handle it," I said with a casual laugh. "But if you would please want to open my door so I can go in without dropping anything?"

"Of course" he said back with an amicable smile, and lifted my smaller suitcase. The way he stiffly moved, however, indicated that even _that_ was a struggle. I wondered if he was okay, but also how he came to be in this state.

We walked down the staircase and found the door of my new apartment wide open. John and I glanced at each other with concern, but a little investigation, and we found the perpetrator.

Standing in the middle of my kitchen, was Sherlock. Looking into my open fridge.

"Sherlock?" asked John, surprised, but obvious keeping some irritation bottled down- his voice shook. "What... the _hell..._ are you doing in Monica's kitchen?" John set down the suitcase, and his fists clenched at his sides.

Sherlock looked up unruffled and gave me his cold, hateful gaze. _Still angry from yesterday then. _He strolled over to us, closing the refrigerator door, and stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of the long, black coat he was wearing.

"Nothing that is worth telling. Just looking at the measurements of the refrigerator."

He spoke with a soft smile whilst he looked down at John, remembering the speech that he had been given that morning- about how Sherlock should act if he wanted to know some more about Monica. _Friendly, open and helpful_.

John's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Well, be a gentleman and help Monica with her suitcases. My shoulder aches again." Sherlock looked at me and I nearly gasped. His stare was as cold as ice, and was full of what can only be described as _hatred._

John noted Sherlock's hesitation and glare, and shot him a look in return.

"No, it's alright." I muttered to John in response to Sherlock's unfriendly gaze. "I don't need his help."

Sherlock looked surprised upon hearing my answer, if only for a split second.

"No I would love to help" he said now with a fake smile. All it did was make me feel nauseous again.

I ignored him, and turned to my bedroom. I wheeled the suitcases to the end of the empty bed, and returned glumly to the kitchen. John was openingly glowering at Sherlock.

"I need to go shopping for a few things." I opened my purse absent-mindedly, and realised that I was still slightly baffled by the currency. "I don't suppose you know where I can find some things that will come in handy?" I asked, directing the question to John.

"Why would you need more stuff? It isn't like you don't have a lot already." Sherlock said. His brow furrowed deeply, more questions were evidently burning in his mind.

Keeping my voice as even as possible, I replied curtly, "Just to make me feel more at home. Nothing special required."

"I know a few shops nearby; I will take you if you like." John offered, knowing that I wouldn't know the area.

_He is _such _a gentleman. And a lovely one at that!_

"That would be lovely, John. Is it okay if we go now?"

The sooner I can unpack, the better.

...

Within the hour, John and I had finished shopping. Upon exiting the store, he asked me if I was up for some tea. Answering with a happy agreement, we went to the nearest tearoom. A cosy, traditional one at that, and I got the distinct impression that John was a regular haunt.

As we sat down, John couldn't control his curiosity. "So, if you don't mind my asking, was Sherlock truly wrong?" He looked concerned, and I felt warmth under his gaze. _His kindness never seems to end._

I smiled at him and put my purse back into my bag next to my chair. I leant forward, and looked John in the eye. _Blue. Very blue._

"I'll tell you, John, on one condition." I said after a short deliberation, unsure as to if I would really tell him everything. I continued. "This is really _none _of Sherlock's business, and I need you to promise me to not tell Sherlock all about it."

John smiled knowingly. "I promise. I know how Sherlock is- been flatmates with the bloke for about four years now. Your secret is in very safe hands, Monica." John replied, causing me to chuckle. _With relief._

"It's very unexciting, really. I wasn't feeling good, I'm still not feeling well to be honest, and I haven't for a while... so, I touched my stomach several times to help me control it. It seems to put me at ease, don't ask why." I swallowed and looked at the gingham pattern of the table cloth, tracing the pattern with my finger. "Two months ago, I have been..." I stopped my sentence and swallowed again. This was blunt to say to somebody that I just met yesterday. _Scrap that- this was blunt to say to _anybody_._

John saw that I was struggling, and immediately grabbed my hand. The urge to start crying overwhelmed me, and I looked up into his kind eyes, and saw his worry. If anything, that made me want to cry even more. _Oh god..._

Not knowing what to do, John quietly asked "Monica, are you alright?" The subtle delivery of his question stilled my breath, and I pulled myself together.

"I'm fine, John." _Deep breath. _"It is just... a little... _tough_ to say..." _C'mon, Monica. Just spit it out._

John won't judge you, you know that.

"I was once almost abused by a man when I walked out of a club alone at one evening." I looked at him as I said it in one breath, and shakily let it out again. "I'm sorry that you-"

John cut of my sentence anxiously, and once again muttered purposefully. It was soothing. "Oh good lord, Monica. I'm so sorry to- I shouldn't of- Please forgive m-"

_He looks so lost. _

I smile at him, wanting to hug him. But I needed to continue my story. _It's always the way, you know that._

"I was lucky, John." At his skeptical look, I persisted. "I was- I got away with only a stab wound to my stomach, but nothing else happened." _I'd have the stab wound anyday._

Untangling my hand from his, I lifted my shirt up to my navel so he could see the still- healing wound on my bare flesh. John looked at the wound critically, with intense concentration lined in his face.

Is he a doctor or a surgeon or something?

"Never been engaged either; I bought my ring after the incident." I laugh slightly, straightening my shirt. "I switch it onto my wedding finger when I'm alone on the street now, hoping that I get less attention from that kind of people. Insanely, it works you know." He looked up.

"I have bags under my eyes because I can't sleep. Every night when I lay in bed and I feel _him... _I was so scared, John. I lie there in cold sweat and the pain is just as real." My voice cracks at the end of my sentence, and I hold my stomach again. "I'm just always haunted by it. I can't escape it; not in my thoughts, my dreams... and when it gets too much, I just have to let myself _feel it_, so I can be sure it was real."

Being assured that it was real is better than being hoodwinked into believing that it was your own imagination, Monica.

The waitress finally dotted over, with our teapots and milk, cups and saucers, and inquired as to anything else. John politely waved her away, but his fixed gaze wouldn't leave my face. All I could see was horror.

"It is hard to sleep with such thoughts, you know?" I pour myself a cup in a hopefully blasé manner, but my shaking hands give away my deception.

John sighed deeply, helping himself to his own brew. "I know what you are talking about." I look up as I stir in the milk. "I was an army doctor and I'm still struggling with PTSD." _No wonder he looks so weary- he's seen it all. All the worst the world has to throw at him.  
_  
I nodded, but was surprised at hearing that he has been an army doctor. We were silent for a moment and just sat there drinking from our tea. It was peaceful. Sometimes, secrets and fears need to be dusted off. Sharing them made them easier to bear.

_"Sherlock grouped the two things together instead of seeing them as separate. That must be why he thought you had an abortion or miscarriage." _John said now understanding the wrong deduction of his friend.

Clouds suddenly shifted outside, and John and I watched as passersby shielded their eyes from the now achingly-brilliant glare of the sun. I smiled.

"So no boyfriend?" John asked now wanting to change the subject. I laughed.

"Nope, no boyfriend. I'm not really good at that sort of thing... I'm just too shy I think." I contemplate my cup, and the milky dregs in the bottom.

"_Not really _my area." I said.

John stares at me. I'm puzzled. _What have I said? _But before I can ask, he seems to physically shake himself, and continues.

"So why are you in London on your own?" John pours himself another cup, and I hasten to copy.

"Well, Sherlock was right about one thing... I _am_ trying to 'escape' from my current situation." Sugar goes in. "I hoped that if I went to a whole new country, it would mean a new beginning. But so far, I'm still having these nightmares." _I should've known better, really._

John looked sorry for me. His expression was so caring and warm; he was going to be a great friend, I could tell. "It'll take some time but it will go away" he said in an attempt to make me feel better. "I can promise you that, Monica." He took my hand again, and fixes me with his gaze once again. _I can trust those eyes._

"It gets better."

_But when?_

I smile; truthfully, this time. "Thank you John. For listening to me. For just... yeah." I find words fail me, and it isn't because I'm speaking a foreign language. "It feels good, telling somebody about my situation, and them not judging."

John starts to reply when suddenly my ringtone goes off in my pocket. I pull out my phone, but I do not recognise the number.

"Excuse me, let me just take this one" I said apologizing to John. He nods good-naturedly, and picks up his cup to sip, returning his look to outside the window onto the street. The sun had gone as quickly as it came, but I appreciated his subtle privacy.

"Monica Smith," I answered in a friendly tone to the unknown person.

"Monica, it's Sherlock. Why are you two gone for so long? I thought you two were only going to shop for some small things," Sherlock;s voice demanded in a rush. John's head whips around to me, his tea spilling out of his cup with his movement. He evidently heard his flatmate's voice.

"Sherlock?!" John's facial expression went from friendly, to curiosity, to pure indignation. I exchange a look with him, but return to the conversation.

"How did you know my phone number?" I asked, not sure if I must be afraid or not. _Let's reserve judgement, for now..._

"Never mind that! Where are you two?" he now asked getting more insistent.

_...Screw it. Bloody nosy bastard._

"We _were_ drinking some tea until you interrupted us, Mr Holmes. Now if you will excuse me, I'm continuing to talk to John here." I snap my phone shut.

John looks apprehensive. "I maybe should have told you to close the door behind you... It's normal for him to go look around in people their personal stuff... awareness of other people isn't... really a talent of his." he said lamely, ashamed of his flatmate.

I open my mouth to reply, only to be halted by my phone ringing again.

Giving John an look, I open my phone again.

"Monica Smith." I answered shrewdly, not sure if it was Sherlock calling again.

"Monica? Inspector Greg Lestrade here."

"Oh, sir! Excuse me, I wasn't expecting you to call!"

John looked puzzled. _Boss, _I mouthed at him.

"Not a problem, Monica. I don't know if you are busy right now... but I have a case for you. If you would please come to the Yard to take a look."

"Of course! No problem, I'm on my way! Give me about ten minutes."

"No rush, Monica, no rush." I could hear his smile on the phone, as he hung up. I look up at John as I collect my things.

"Sorry John, I have to go. That was my boss, I have to go to work."

"Oh dear!" John chuckled, "No problem, shall I bring your shopping bags home with me? That way, you don't have to drag them with you to work."

_Will I ever get used to this man's goodness? _"That would be great, John, lovely!" I said already walking towards the door. "See you later this evening then!"

"Yeah, bye Monica" John called after me, waving. I returned it, and skipped out of the café onto the street. Looking up at the heavens, I could see patches of blue sky, just like my eyes. I beamed, knowing the sun was on its way.

My first case on my new job was about to start and it felt exciting. _First day as a police officer, in England! Will it be different to Belgium? _ I found myself pondering as I hailed a cab.

"Scotland Yard, please."

_Things are looking up._

* * *

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	3. A study in Monica Part I

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**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 3: A study in Monica Part I**

It was ten minutes after Monica had left the tearoom that John grabbed her stuff, got a cab, and hiked up the steps to 221B. He stumbled up the staircase with his shoulder still hurting- aching even more, if that was possible- and dragged the bags of Monica into the living room, and onto the dining table. He let out a sigh of relief as he clutched his shoulder, rotating it in his socket.

John looked around. The living room was slightly tidier than usual, but considering that Sherlock was still slumped in his chair, he surmised that Mrs Hudson had made a visit. _'Not our housekeeper'; bollocks,_ John thought, smiling inwardly.

Sherlock stirred from his statue-like state, and inclined his head to John. His eyes never left an imaginary spot on the wall.

"Where is she?"

John picked up a newspaper, and scanned the headlines, heading out to the kitchen for another cup of tea. "Who? Monica?" John assumed that she was to whom Sherlock was referring. "She was called to go to work suddenly. Seemed urgent," he said, recalling the haste in which she left.

Regardless, Sherlock was being unusually intrusive. Not in the general sense- Sherlock had a nose for knowing everything put to him- but to take interest in someone else's whereabouts? _Unusual._

As the kettle boiled, John heard Sherlock talk. He had reduced the amount he talked to himself, so John assumed it was a phone call. He hummed tunelessly as he poured the water into his mug.

Turning around to return to his chair and newspaper, Sherlock answered John's unasked question.

"Lestrade." Sherlock strode over to the door, and grabbed his long, dark coat and blue scarf off of the rack beside the door frame.

"Let me guess, a new murder?" John asked with a faint smile. Being able to count the number of times he had _actually _managed to enjoy a cup of tea within the flat, John put his tea back in the kitchen, and grabbed a coat- it had gotten chilly outside.

Mrs Hudson popped her head around the door- surely ready to enquire where Monica was. Her arms were loaded with shopping bags.

Sherlock practically danced into the kitchen. "Yes! Four serial suicides, and now a note." His smile was so wide, it was infectious. "Oh, it's Christmas."

Spotting his landlady in the doorway, he gave her a swift kiss on the cheek. "Mrs Hudson, we'll be late. Might need some food later!" He skipped into the hallway, and John bemusedly trudged after him.

Still yelling in excitement, Sherlock's amusement didn't cease. "And I thought that this day was going to be boring!" _Good god, _thought John, _what has Lestrade done?_

John stopped, suddenly. _Lestrade..._

The tearoom.

The phone call. _"Boss," _Monica had mouthed. _Wait..._

Mrs Hudson interrupted his train of thought. "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." she reminded Sherlock, in amused disgust.

"Who cares, Mrs Hudson?! The game... _is on_!" Sherlock ran down the stairs past John, his coat billowing out behind him. He reached the front door. "Come on, John we better not let Lestrade wait, or else Anderson will screw it up somehow!" The man said in a hurry. His friend was so slow.

John shook his head "Yeah, alright Sherlock I'm coming!"

**MONICA'S POV**

The office was chaotic, but looked ordered and lived-in. I glanced out of it through the glass walls, and saw DI Lestrade coming towards me. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, black trousers and was handling a black trench coat. He opened the door, and smiled warmly. _He reminds me of John._

He opened the door and held it open. In the lighting, he was tanned, with a wide smile and a much chiselled jaw. His hair was endless shades of grey, but it suited him. Gregory Lestrade looked strong. _But could hug you as much as crush you_.

"Come on Monica we are going to the place where the incident happened," he said, and as I strode through, he gently put his hand on my back, guiding me where to go.

"Certainly, but what exactly has happened?" I said confused why I had to come when it wasn't really my hour to work. _Nor my field of expertise, come to that._

Lestrade looked down at me, noticing my bemusement. "We found a dead body in an abandoned house and we need someone to take a look at it- I fill you in on the details in the car. But mainly I just thought it would be perfect for you to see how we work here at Scotland Yard." _Smart and approachable. _

To give the Inspector credit, I indeed did need to know more about how the system works here in England, so I nodded my head in approval. We strode together down the corridor, and I was only slightly nervous about what would come about.

...

My first impression of the crime scene, upon arrival, was that it was very crowded. _Do they really need all these officers for this one crime? _ Followed by Lestrade, I ducked under the yellow crime tape, and jogged slightly into the house, my heels clacking on the pavement. Being handed blue coveralls by a man with short brown hair, I tried to slip them on as gracefully and quickly as possible. Lestrade beside me did the same.

"Evening," he said to me, politely. "Who's this Greg?" the brown haired man asked looking confused.

In a rush to zip up his new attire, Lestrade answered him hurriedly. "Your new colleague."

The man turned to me, and held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, the name is Anderson" He didn't let go of my hand.

"Lovely to meet you too, Anderson" I said while I gave him a friendly smile. _Well, as friendly as I could muster._ I wasn't liking the idea of him clutching my hand very much, and dropped it.

He noticed, and sighed a little bit. _Bit theatrical._

Lestrade ascended the staircase to the next floor, and I followed. Entering the room in question, a dead woman that was laying on the ground. _Wow, nice outfit, honey. _She was decked out in a bright, obnoxious pink. Behind me, I sensed that Anderson had tagged along.

"As far as we can see, no marks on the body. She only had her passport in her coat pocket." Anderson said with a disappointed voice. "

"The same as the others?" Lestrade asked curiously. "No other ID, no phone, no nothing?"

"Exactly the same, so yes- nothing else. All we know is that she's called Jennifer... Wilson... yeah, Jennifer Wilson, and born in Manchester. Age, too, but no next of kin at all."

Lestrade stood still for a minute, and upon looking at his expression, it appeared that he was deliberating upon something. Eventually, he sighed, and pulled out his mobile from the pocket of his shirt. _Somewhat awkwardly, _I noticed. The Inspector started typing in a number of somebody. I could only watch him and didn't say anything. Instead, I gazed at the woman on the ground, trying to infer anything- _anything - _from where she lay.

"Um, you're not... phoning him, are you? Cause we can handle this... we can _absolutely_ handle this.." Anderson said, now becoming unsure of the situation for some reason. There was also a strange tone to his voice- urgent, yet exasperated.

But why was it so special? Who was Lestrade calling? Surely it's only back-up, or a special pathology team...

"You got work to do." Lestrade simply answered, and turned slightly away. Anderson seemed to be deciding whether to ignore the hint, but ultimately sighed, looked at me and mouthed the words 'I will see you later'. _Ugh. Fat chance, pal. _I gave him a strange look and continued looking around the whole crime scene. The woman was lying on her front. I leaned slightly to my left and saw that underneath the coat, her clothes were pink too. _Sweet lord._

"This is Inspector Lestrade, I think we will be needing you. This is already the fourth and this time there's a note. Can you come?" He quickly spoke into the phone. He halted in his conversation, obviously listening to the reply. "See you in ten." He hung up.

"Um, who are you calling sir?" I asked.

Lestrade looked at me. "Sorry, Monica. This is hardly a professional case for you to do for your first outing with us." I assured him that it was fine, that it's a case all the same. _Still wondering where I come into this- this isn't my field. _Lestrade continued. "The phone call was somebody that we need when we don't know what to do anymore" he said with a soft chuckle.

_Oh, god._

...

We waited for ten minutes, as promised. Lestrade's walkie-talkie crackled with the voice of an irate-sounding woman.

"Freak's here, bringing him in." Lestrade answered tersely, and I prepared myself. I remained standing beside the dead body. Most people would have retreated but since I've seen my fair share of dead bodies. They begin to blur together after a while, and you carry on.

Footsteps on the staircase. The door creaked open. Lestrade and I turned, and my breath left me in one huge rush.

Him. And his friend. The two people I would have not expected to see here. _John and Sherlock. Bloody hell!_ I quickly calculated- I had left John only thirty minutes ago. _But that doesn't answer why the hell they are here!_

"John? Sherlock? What- I mean- _what?_" I stammered.

Sherlock, equally surprised to see me, didn't know what to answer on the first moment. I looked to John, and saw him smile slightly. _I wonder if he knew..._

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "You _know _them?"

"Of course I know them! I only moved into the same house as them this morning!" I practically yelled, and flailed my arms slightly. _What the _hell?!

"So... you are a police officer?" Sherlock asked surprised. "Didn't see that one coming." _Yeah, I bet you didn't, ignorant little git._

"Yes, I am... well, near enough- my title isn't Constable, I work for-" _Monica, you're losing sight of the situation. Sherlock and John are right in front of you!_ Coming to my senses, I stopped my monologue. "The point is, may I ask you what _you_ two," and I pointed a finger at him and John, "are doing here?!"

"This, Monica, is our job." John offered pointedly. "Sherlock is, well, kind of a detective. And I _guess_ you could say I'm his personal coroner-"

"Excuse me?" None of that went in. John sighed.

"Look, we'll explain later. But we're here for her," he said, inclining to the victim, beside whom Sherlock was crouching. Lestrade nodded reassuringly, and I abated._For now._

**SHERLOCK'S POV**

As Sherlock starts to examine the body, he sees that the victim has scratched a word into the wood floor. _Rache._ The scratches on her left hand nails tell him that she was left-handed. A quick check of his inventory informs him that it could be German. _Revenge. _He dismissed it. _Highly unlikely that she'd be the theatrical sort to want vengeance for her death. _Sherlock regards the scratches again, and smiles. _Rache__**l. **_The name- relative? Lover? He files it away. _One clue down._

Sherlock bends in for a closer look. He sees that her coat is wet. She has an umbrella in her pocket, and upon pulling out, finds that it is dry. Running a gloved finger under the inside of her collar, Sherlock's suspicions are correct- that material is wet, too. _Hmm. _Lestrade, John and Monica watch him, confused as to what Sherlock is trying to piece together. _Idiots, the lot of them._

Sherlock whipped out his tiny yet powerful magnifying lens, and remarks inwardly that the victim's gold plated necklace is clean. _Sparkling clean. Polishes it regularly_. Upon inspecting the remainder of her jewellery, everything is concurrent. _Except for her wedding ring_. It's old, and scratched. Strange that a woman's most beloved piece of jewellery would be dirty and damaged. _So, she's been __**unhappily married**__ for ten or more years. _ As Sherlock takes off the ring, he notices that the inside is clean and shinier than the outside. _It is regularly removed_. But why? **_Serial adulterer._** Sherlock smiles.

"Got anything?" Lestrade now asked hopefully. Sherlock straightens and pulls off his rubber gloves. They irritated him.

"Not much" he answered shortly, pulling his smartphone out of the pocket of his coat. He could feel all eyes on him, centre stage. Even hers.

Anderson entered the room and tried to give the world an unwanted opinion. He leant against the doorframe, and Sherlock glanced over, noticing that Monica was waiting for the Head Idiot to say something.

"She's German," He announced smugly, and looked everywhere but Monica._ Smarmy little gnat._ "_Rache_; German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something-" he started.

Sherlock cut him off.

"Yes, thank you for your input," and he swung the door shut in Anderson's face. Sherlock thought he heard a slight chuckle from the woman stood behind him, and smiled slightly. He turned back to the victim, and in his peripheral vision realised the smile on Monica's face was gone as quickly as it came.

Anyone could see that Sherlock was obviously not fond of Anderson. By the general look of disgust on Monica's face a moment ago, Sherlock knew the feeling was mutual with her.

Lestrade asked for clarification. "So, she's German?" He already used to the way Sherlock treated Anderson, and it didn't bother him in the slightest.

_Idiots! Idiots everywhere! _"Of _course_ she's not. But she's from out of town though- intending to stay in London for one night, before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious." Sherlock was back to tapping on his phone.

"Sorry, obvious?" Monica asked confused.

Sherlock sighed inwardly. _I'm surrounded by them._

**MONICA'S POV**

Looking at John and Lestrade, I could see they were as lost as I was. The situation was familiar though. Casting my memory back to yesterday, I realised._Sherlock's deducing again. Detective, indeed._

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade asked again. The man had many questions, but almost none of them were answered. I don't think, however, that that is abnormal.

"John, what do you think?" Sherlock didn't look at him, his slim, face was illuminated by the screen. _God, those cheekbones! _I reprimanded myself for that little observation. _But then again, you'd have to be blind to miss them in this light._

"Of the message?" John asked confused.

"No, the body. You're a medical man..."

John sighed, and walked over to the victim. His knees cracked slightly as he crouched, and took a better look at the body. He bent down to her mouth, inhaled, and straightened, ready to share his wisdom with us.

"Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit." John turned to Lestrade and I also. "Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could have been a seizure- possibly drugs."

"Suicide?" I asked trying to help.

Sherlock just dismissively waved his hand and continued his story. I scowled.

_At least I know the kind of spiel that's coming. _And Sherlock was off.

"The victim is in her late 30s. Professional person going by her clothes. I'm guessing the media going by the frankly alarming shade of pink." His nose wrinkled, and I had to admit that I agreed. "Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" both John and Lestrade asked confused. I also couldn't see a suitcase anywhere in the room. _Strange..._

"Yes." Sherlock carried on, unheeded. "She has been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.

"Oh my god, if you're just making this up-" I started, presuming him to be wrong once again.

"Her wedding ring! Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but _not her wedding ring._ State of her marriage right there." _Ah._

"

The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside, so it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she _works it off her finger_. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands." He looked down at her with indifference. "_So_; what or, rather, _who _does she remove her rings for?" Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that amount of time, so more likely a string of lovers. Simple." He ended again with some triumph, and I had to hand it to him- it was _rather _remarkable. _If it's true,_ I reminded myself sceptically.

Lestrade was still confused about one little fact. "Why do you keep saying _suitcase_?".

Sherlock bent down again. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer." He glanced up at me. "And you, Monica, find out who Rachel is; track her down, keep a tail on her." _Finally, something that my job entails._

"She was writing _Rachel_?" I asked, still slightly befuddled by the situation. Sherlock glared up at me.

"_No_, she was writing an angry note in German," My eyes narrowed. _Sarcastic little prick. _ "Of _course_ she was writing _Rachel_, no other word it can be!" He looked away, confused. "But why would she wait until she was dying to write it?"

Lestrade was still biting on the main problem. "But there wasn't any suitcase!"

Sherlock ran past him, out onto the landing. "_Suitcase_! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" Sherlock yelled to the officers below.

_"Sherlock, there was no case!"_ I reiterated, now becoming angry. _If he mentions it one more time, I swear I'll floor him._

He span around and grabbed my shoulders. _What the- _His face was now mere inches from my own. _He has green eyes. _Unhindered by my silent observation, Sherlock was going at a hundred miles per hour.

"

But they _take the poison themselves_! They _chew_, _swallow_ the pills, _themselves_." He finally released me, but fled down the stairs two at a time. Yelling up at us, he remarks, "there are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

Lestrade bristled beside me, and shouted leaning over the banister, "right, yeah, thanks! _And…_?"

Sherlock spoke more measured, just as John joined Lestrade and myself. "It's murder. All of them. I don't know _how_. But they're not suicides, they're serial killings!" He clapped his hands excitedly. _Wow, subtle._ "We've got ourselves a serial killer. _Love those_. There's always something to look forward to!" he said enthusiastically.

I was at the end of my tether. _"But what does this have to do with anything?!"_

"Come on, where is her case, did she eat it?"

_Calm thoughts, Monica, calm thoughts..._

He continued. "Someone else was here, and they took her case! So the killer must have driven her here. Forgot the case was in the car!"

John added in his two-pennies worth. "She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John tried to help him.

_How does this wonderful man put up with a tosser like Holmes?_

I glanced back to the woman in the pink coat. _Wait a second... _pink _coat. Pink..._

"No," I answered John quickly, and knew they were gazing at me. Even Sherlock looked taken aback. "_No, _she never got to the hotel."

Clambering down the stairs past Sherlock, I noticed his expression. He looked dumbfounded, and I elaborated.

"_Look _at the woman! Look at her _hair_!" Sherlock, John and Lestrade were staring at me, and I continued. "She colour-coordinates her _lipstick and her shoes_! She'd never leave any hotel with her hair still looking-" Sherlock cut of my sentence with a gasp. He stared at me in shock.

"What is it?" I asked irritated. _Has to have the lime-light._

Lestrade broke the moment; "Sherlock, Monica, we can't wait any longer! We need _something!_ Anything you've got!"

Sherlock was buzzing again. "Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her, _really look!_ Get on to Cardiff." He turned to me. "Monica, find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find _Rachel_!" He left the house swiftly, followed by John who had an apologetic look on his face. _Hmm, I'm not happy, John. _But at least _he _had the decency to look contrite.

Lestrade descended the stairs, and came to beside me. Looking, at me he just sighed. "I think you have seen enough for today, Monica. I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry! I'll go home and start looking for _Rachel_, I have a few contacts who could-"

Lestrade shook his head. "I will take care of _Rachel_, you can go on home. Get some sleep."

I thought about arguing, but he was my boss. _If it's anything you learnt during your training, Monica, it's not to argue with your commander. _So instead I nodded and left, still very confused.

Whilst coming home, the only thing I could do was thinking about Sherlock and John_. Where were they? _I paid the driver, and clambered up the steps to 221 Baker Street, with my keys ready and jangling in my hand.  
_  
_I sighed loudly, and went straight to my bedroom. Without taking off my clothes or makeup, I clambered pleasurably onto my bed. Kicking off my heels with my feet, I suddenly felt so tired that I couldn't help but fall asleep.

_...Such... green... eyes..._

* * *

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	4. A study in Monica Part II

**Sorry for the late update but I hope it's worth this sickfic themed chapter! Please leave a review if you liked this kind of thing! **

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**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 4: A study in Monica Part II**

The sun was barely rising and streetlights continued to shine lazily through the windows of 221 Baker Street. It was nearing 6am when Sherlock and John finally arrived home; they had been away for the whole night but weren't planning on stopping now.

However, John's eyelids were starting to droop.

Sherlock had discovered that the murderer would have forgotten about the suitcase. And the last place she was known to be, before death, was in a car. _So it was the driver, and he would have had the suitcase._ So that meant that the murderer was able to drive in the streets without being noticed. _But who?_

Mind soaking in this information, he strolled to the living room door, intending to go downstairs to 221C.

John rubbed his weary eyes, but spoke up.

"Sherlock can't you just let the girl sleep for a while? Her workday starts at 9 am," he said. _She needs as much sleep as she can get, if she's working for the Yard._

"Why should I wait when there is a killer abound?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. "And besides, John, it's her _job_ to help us." He continued. "She won't mind."

John sighed, but knew that once Sherlock had an idea, he would be determined to carry it out. _Things never change. _He heaved himself out of the chair, and sauntered with fatigue to the kettle.

Meanwhile, Sherlock went down to the downstairs' door. He heard John shout down the staircase from the kitchen.

"And for your information, Sherlock; no- it's _not_ her job to wake up at 6am just to help a consulting detective and a doctor with a random case. She has her own job." Footsteps creaked above, and Sherlock saw John lean his torso over the landing rails. "And how the _hell _did you get her keys?" John questioned suspiciously.

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, that- Mrs Hudson always keeps three keys to an apartment. I've got one. You could say that I've been lent it but, well..." He said, waving his hand pompously in the air. John sighed, and Sherlock heard his bedroom door click shut.

Returning to the matter at hand, Sherlock turning the key smoothly, and the door unlocked. He immediately made their way through the dark room. He tread into the living room silently.

The orange glow from the street lamps illuminating the furniture eerily, it was all very quiet.

Until suddenly Sherlock heard a blood-curdling scream, coming from the bedroom.

Sherlock spun around to face the bedroom door and stared in horror. He heard John's thundering footfall above, sprinting down the stairs.

He was frozen.

John had slammed him way into the room, when another scream sliced through them both.

**MONICA'S POV**

_"Do you want another, miss?" the kind waiter had asked._

_"No, thank you; I'm just going to finish this one and go home." I said easily in response._

He sauntered away to polish some more glasses whilst I downed and finished my drink, hopped of the stool, and left the the crowded bar. It may have been the drink, but I felt something prickling at the hairs of my neck.

_Home was only three streets away- _might as well walk_. After turning onto the second, I consciously realised that my heart rate had quickened, that I had butterflies in my stomach, and that my muscles started to tense. _Your training. Fight or flight. Monica, why? What is happening?_Reaching out my mind, drinking in my surrounding, I noticed that a guy had been following me from the start. Behind me, all the way._

Ignoring momentarily my physiological responses, I continued my pace.

Don't let him know you know. _Glancing in an angled window of a shop to my left, I caught sight of his reflection._

_He didn't seem that much older. _26, maybe 27 years old. Tall. Athletic.

Get to a safe place. Public. People. Gun? No, left it at home. _Idiot._ Any other weapon? Penknife, pocket. _I curled my fingers around it, the cold metal bringing my attention to my situation._

_He yelled something at me. I fought the response to walk faster- _don't give him cause to chase you, he's faster-_ and decided that ignoring him was better. But he seemed to catch up with me. I faced him square-on, tensing my muscles to fight._

_"What do you want from me?" I asked, anxious at stopping in the middle of the street, my eyes fixed on the guy. _There's no-one around, Monica. _Where his weak spots? _Crotch. Neck. Ankles. _Not the stomach, legs or arms._

_"You," he answered, obviously drunk._

_God, how much had that guy had? _His breath was rancid.

_I wanted to answer something but couldn't find the words for a response. I pulled my penknife out. Flicked it open, but didn't break eye-contact. I stepped back, and that was the trigger._

_Suddenly I felt his arms spin me around, and before I could fight back, his arms had me in a tight embrace, and he kept his body as far away from my feet._

_I gasped when I saw my knife in his hands. _How?!

Monica, idiot, scream! _But it was no use. Why had I stopped in the middle of an abandoned street?_

_"Now you are going to do exactly what I ask you, missy," he whispered, with a soft but threatening voice._

_Pushed me into an alcove._

_Pulled off my jacket. My shirt ripped._

_I just stood there, eyes wide open, not knowing what to do. No amount of training could have prepared me for this._

_I wanted to scream but I couldn't._

_"Come on, work with me here, lady," he said becoming impatient. He started to lose his mind in his state of drunken lust and insanity._

_I felt his knife pressing against my stomach, and I numbly felt my blood pool around the edge._

Monica. Scream. Now. Do it. MONICA.

_I blinked, and suddenly everything was sharper. Adrenalin had entered my entire system. Pupils dilated._

You. Must. Survive.

_I drew in a breath._

Scream.

I let it burst out of me, and he was so taken aback that he just pressed my knife harder to my stomach. It sliced through my skin even more. It couldn't feel the pain, but the coldness made me scream even more. Grabbing his wrists, I struggled. Shoved the palm of my hand into his face. Felt his nose crunch. He howled, but my knife was embedded in my abdomen.

_I felt a heady stream of blood soaking my skirt and his shirt, and it covered my body. There's going to be a scar, if I survive. _You will survive. _No. _Yes.

_I could feel the sharp point into my bare flesh. It was so sharp._

_His blood dripped on my breasts, and my hold on his unarmed wrist tightened, and the bones snapped. He yelled again, and I slipped out from his arms. Like a bar of steel, his arm caught me around the waist, and the knife cut even more into my belly._

He slammed me back against the wall, and his expression was pure fury. His uninjured hand had mine pinned above my head. Suddenly, the knife was ripped from my stomach, and I jerked forward with a macabre screech.

My vision was going. My body was shutting down.

Fight it, Monica! Fight it!

_But I couldn't. My head lolled forward._

_Wait. Something changed about the situation. I could hear my name. My head picked up. Help me..._

_"Monica!" I heard another voice._

_There were two other people. Who?_

Help me...

Help me!

"HELP ME!"

My eyes shot open, and I jolted upright. My hand pulled my Browning semi-automatic Buck Mark pistol from under my pillow, and unseeingly raised it in front of me. I heard a scuffle.

I automatically clutched at my stomach. No blood was coming from there. I was drenched in cold sweat, and was shaking. My pistol wavered in front of me, the safety off and my finger curled around the trigger.

Sweat dripped down my forehead and drenched the pyjama top I was dressed in. Two pairs of strong hands grabbed my shoulders but only momentarily, as I twisted one of the offender's wrists so that he yowled. Whipping a leg from under the covers, and hooked them behind his legs. His body crumbled to the floor.

"Get away from me!" I yelled not know the one that was holding me. _Escape. Bathroom._

I leapt out lithely over him, still not able to see the details of his form, but my pistol was safely trained on his silhouette. I backed slowly away from him, and felt the bathroom door behind me.

I spun around into it, rapidly locking the door. I backed away until my calves hit the bathtub, and I slid down the floor. Keeping the pistol trained on the door, I tried to control my breathing.

"Monica?!" I hear a familiar voice shout.

**I froze. ****_Oh my god, it's Sherlock._**

I didn't move, but a second later, I could hear knocking at the door, and somebody saying that it was all just a dream.

**_John was here too?!_**

_Oh. _The adrenalin started to ebb from my system, and my heart rate slowed, as I started to realise what was happening. _I must have had the nightmare again_. Now John and Sherlock were on the other side of the bathroom door.

_Why were they in my flat? _

Suddenly a wave of nausea hit me, and I promptly emptied my stomach into the toilet. Wiping my mouth after, I leaned next to the cold wall.

The door slammed open and Sherlock and John entered the room.

_Well... this is awkward._

"Go... away..." I tried to yell, but I ended up just whispering. Sounding tired, but still not wanting them to see me in this situation.

_Please..._

They didn't seem to hear nor care, and just stood there.

I looked up at them to see worried looks on their faces; even Sherlock's.

"I said, 'go away'!" I managed to shout at them. Nausea ripped through me once more, and I had to throw up again. _My stomach... _I groaned. It was all turning and twisting around me, so I just closed my eyes. _When I open them, they won't be here..._

"Monica, are you alright?" John whispered. He had crouched down beside me, and I barely registered that he was tenderly holding my damp, blonde hair back off of my face.

_Do I look like I'm alright?_

"I'm fine, John, thank you," I murmured, still with closed eyes and sweat dripping down my face.

"You don't look 'alright'," Sherlock said abruptly. He was still in the doorway.

I opened my eyes and saw him staring at me. His clothes were all ruffled, and it barely became aware of the fact that it may have been him that I tackled to the carpet. I looked to John- the two staring at me fixatedly. Sherlock's eyes left mine, and focused on the hand lying on my stomach. _Piss off. _John continued looking at my face.

"I must agree with Sherlock on this one, sweetheart," he said softly.

"No it's just-" I paused as my voice broke and my breath shuddered, "-a stupid dream." John's arms tighten around my shoulders, and pull me into his warm, beige jumper. "Nothing more..."

_Who am I kidding. _Everything was just becoming too much. Parts of the dream flashed before my eyes, and I closed them to rid myself of them. But I couldn't hold myself from letting a tear fall.

"John, do something about it. I can't work with her like... this," Sherlock said hurriedly. There was a strange tone of concern that I doubted usually belonged there. I wanted to say that I was fine, but I could feel a cool hand press against my forehead. I sighed from relief.

Seconds later I could hear the tap being turned on and water flowing into my sink. As a swam in and out of consciousness five minutes later, I could feel a wet face cloth against my forehead.

"Sherlock, could you just hold that face cloth against her forehead for a while?" _John? Why is your voice so distant? _"She's got a fever. I'm just going to get some pills." John was in army doctor mode.

I blinked my eyes open, trying to rid the smeary quality, and saw that Sherlock hesitated but agreed. He sat down next to me to hold the face cloth against my head. His eyes were still trained on my stomach.

_For God's sake..._

"Could you please stop staring at me like that, I'm already uncomfortable." I tried to sound cutting, but even to my own ears, I begged.

His obligingly eyes turned to the other side of the room and I sighed in relief.

"What are you two doing here, anyway?" I asked remembering the fact that it was impossible to get in.

_Well, not impossible... illogical, maybe._

He noticed that I wanted to change the subject and quickly answered.

"The killer must have forgotten the suitcase in his car. What must mean that Jennifer Wilson's mobile phone is with him," he said, looking into my eyes. _Green. So green. _

I glanced away, but for some reason, I had to look back. _Ice blue into grass green._

His hand was still pressed against my head. I started to like the feeling of it. My lips parted-

_Wait. _

Suddenly an idea hit me.

"The mobile. We can find him through the GPS system!" I yelled getting up, a bit too early because everything got hazy. I felt two strong hands holding me straight, and I gratefully sank into them, and felt Sherlock's chest against my back.

I turned to look at him. "Sherlock! We can track him down!"

A smile broke out on his lips, and I couldn't help but mimic him.

At that precise moment, John entered the room again; his hands occupied with a glass of water and some pills.

Before he could speak, I lurched towards him. "John!" I yelled, "We've got it! We can find the killer!"

I could hear a chuckle coming from Sherlock. John thrust the items into my hands and I swallowed the pills he had given me.

"You two, go to the Yard and call Lestrade so he can track the mobile phone down. I'm going to take a shower first. I will be there in an hour," I said already pushing them out of the room.

"Are you sure that you are going to be okay? I mean you are having a fever." John asked with a frown, still acting like a doctor. _Kindness will never cease with this soldier._

"Yeah, I will be fine John. Thank you for helping me."

"I really do insist that you stay here-"

"John," I sternly interrupted, and he looked at me. "Tracking people down, following them, gaining information... _that's_ my job." Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, as he glanced down to the pistol on the floor. John simply nodded, and shepherded Sherlock out of the flat.

I rushed to the shower, and I heard them close the front door while I turned on the hot water, stripped quickly, and hopped under the stream of soothing water.

Once the water touched my skin, I felt much better. After washing my hair and body, I turned off the taps. Drying haphazardly, I quickly put on some random clothes that were lying in my suitcase. An oversized T-shirt, a jumper, skinny jeans and my ankle boots.

Although I didn't feel cold, I put on my coat; I knew my body was betraying me through the fever and I knew that it wasn't hot outside. I grabbed my phone, keys and purse, pocketed them, and wolfed down a meagre breakfast.

Once finished, I closed my door and ran to the front door.

_Are there cabs at 7am?_ There must be because Sherlock and John are gone. Jogging down Baker Street, I saw a cab parked on the other side of the street and run to it. The light was on- in service.

I knocked on the window, and saw an old man in the front seat.

"What's wrong, miss?" he asked suspiciously, letting his window sink down._Strange- why would a cab driver ask that? Shouldn't he be asking where to go?_

Something isn't right. But I need to go.

"Scotland Yard please" I said in a hurry.

"Sorry, I'm not on duty" He simply said.

_Well, why is your light on, then?! _"Oh come on! Please! I'll pay extra, because it's so early!" I plead, becoming angry. _Why was he acting like a jerk?_

"Sorry" He just muttered, and turned away.

I lost my control and started to shout. _You are the only cab here, and you are gonna take me to work, God damn it!_

"Okay, sweetheart- I'm a police officer and for the sake of fucking law and order, take me to Scotland Yard!" I knew I overreacted but wasn't lying when I told that I was a police officer. _Well, in essence._

I don't know why but suddenly there appeared a scared look on his face. It then broke out to a grin. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

"Do you do drugs, miss?" He almost chuckled.

"No why would I-"

A sudden wave of tiredness washed over me, and I had to lean against the car.

_What was happening to me?_

"Cause most of the people would have passed out by now."

Staring at the old man, I follow his line of vision. There was a long, deadly needle jabbed into my arm. _Why was there a needle in my arm?! _I started to panic as I heard him laugh.

Suddenly, it all clicked. _I should have known._

_Fuck. Why had I taken this cab? _My mouth opened, and I sucked in a breath to shout. What, I didn't know. But to shout nonetheless.

The man opened his door leisurely.

"_John!"_

He stepped out of the car.

"_John! Sherlock!"_

I staggered away from him and fell back onto the ground.

"_Help me! Sherlock!_

He held me against him.

"_SHERLOCK!"_

Everything turned black.

* * *

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	5. A study in Monica Part III

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**33 reviews? LOVELY! I love you all! To the 25 people that followed the story; PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW! You followed the story, but I would like to hear why. Why do you love it? (: and also thank you to the 12 story favs! **

**heddyvalle, ThefadingdaysofMay, TheMysteriousGeek2345, Raven Winter, the221panda and a-shadow-of-221b: Thank you so much for the reviews! **

**Yex-Zel: Aww thank you! I know it seems like they will be never together but love doesn't happen that quick right? I'm building it up. They only know each other for 3 days (I think..) and it's logical too not let them be together in the first chapters, right? What is so fun about that? And first... Sherlock and emotions? We'll see about that... (: Thank you for the review!**

**Guest: Me? You? Monica and Sherlock? Be more clearly. **

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**A study in Monica Part III**

Within the half hour, Sherlock and John entered the Yard and had Donovan inform Lestrade of their arrival. They stood in the corridor for less than five minutes, before they saw the DI hurtling down to them, talking tersely on his mobile phone.

Upon seeing the two men in front of him, he raised a finger- _just a second-_ finished the conversation, and pocket the phone. Sherlock and John followed Lestrade into his office. John was anxious and it showed, whereas the former managed an impassive expression.

"We are tracking down the GPS in the phone as we speak; the boys downstairs will know the location within about ten minutes" Lestrade said, twisting his hands around. He was obviously nervous for their reaction to the timeframe. Sure enough, Sherlock objected.

"We may have not ten minutes, Inspector!" Sherlock yelled impatiently, his fist slamming down on against the desk behind which Lestrade was seated. The pen pots rattled dangerously. Sighing, John could only watch the two argue for a few minutes. Meanwhile, Anderson entered the office.

"Sir, we have the results of the GPS trace; we are now just waiting for you to come take a look," he said, his eyes never leaving the sight of Sherlock. They narrowed in hatred.

"I'm on my way, Anderson, cheers."

As Anderson exited, Lestrade checked his pockets, stood, grabbed his coat, and inclined his head for his two guests to follow. Sherlock trailed behind the Inspector, who was in turn followed by John.

Catching the lift down two floors to meet the Head IT Analyst at the Yard, they passed a desk with a computer displaying a map of the whole of London. The analyst in question, Michael Hawes, jogged over, and briefed Lestrade quickly.

_Boring. _Sherlock diverted his attention to the map on the screen, and he felt his entire body turn cold upon seeing the dot, which suggested the location of the phone.

"John," he said, and the doctor leant over his shoulder. Sherlock felt his friend's body stiffen too.

"But that's... that's..." John murmured, bewildered. He looked at Sherlock, but Sherlock wasn't listening.

"That's _impossible_!" he yelled in anger.

"Sherlock; it's 221 Baker Street! But it can't be! We just left the place!" John said. Lestrade abruptly broke off his conversation, and turned to the two men at the desk.

Slower than necessary, they both arrived at the same conclusion simultaneously.

_It was already half an hour ago that they left. Monica. Monica was still at Baker Street._

Sherlock looked at the DI. "Monica," he said simply.

Lestrade looked in disbelief at them, not comprehending what they said. But John could see the confusion lift like fog, and watched as he pulled out his phone and turned away. Apparently, the recipient had picked up on the first ring.

"Send back-up to Baker Street; I want the street sectioned off, Donovan. See that it's done, I'll be there in twenty."

Sherlock had already left the room with John when Lestrade turned his head back around.

He sighed, shrugging on his coat before jogging out after them.

**MONICA'S POV**

Everything in my body felt numb. I could barely move and everything was warping in and out; twisting. Similar to earlier this morning, only a hundred times worse. Realising that I was lying on the wooden floor, I struggled upright, clutching my forehead in one hand. _God, my head._

With effort, I finally managed to open my eyes. My eyesight was bleary, but as seconds passed, outlines became defined. I could see the Moccasin wallpaper on the wall opposite and the white furniture.

_I'm in my flat. Why did he bring me _here_?_

"I hope you don't mind," I heard the old cabbie say. Looking round to where his voice came from, I slipped back down the floor. _Everything spins when I move... _I noticed that he was fiddling absent-mindedly with my keys.

He continued. "You've only been out for twenty minutes," as I looked back at my arm, everything hurt whilst I tried to get up again. I grabbed the edge of the mantelpiece, trying to pull myself up so I could face the man, but to no avail- I kept collapsing, and my knees couldn't seem to hold my weight.

"You're strong for a woman of your age," he said, impressed by my tenacity.

I moaned, my face leaning against the cool mantelpiece.

The man couldn't stop talking. "I made everything nice and cosy for you."

"This... is... my flat," I tried to say loudly, but ended up sounding like an exhausted dog; panting, and the words slurring together, even to my own ears.

"Of course it is, yeah." He smiled. "Found your keys in your coat. I thought, well, why not? People like to die at home." He said with a cold snap.

My eyes twisted at hearing the word 'die'. _Not today, pal._

Finally, I managed to stand upright for a few seconds, but once again slammed down onto the cold, hard carpet. Shaking, on hands and knees, I then further collapsed to the floor again. _God, that hurt!_

"There, there now. The drug is still in your system." He prowled over to me, and circled my crumpled form. His footsteps clacking on the floor, echoing like gunshots. "You will remain weak as a kitten for at _least _another hour." He smiled. "I could do anything I would want to do with you now, Miss Smith."

My eyes widened. The fear of being abused filled me once again. _Don't you fucking dare, sweetheart. This girl doesn't go down without a fight._ I waited for the adrenalin to enter my bloodstream and clear the hazy fog that was my mind, but nothing. That's when I panicked- I'd been so used to feeling the hormone hit me in these situations, and I knew I wouldn't be able to fight my way out of this.

"Anything at all," he continued. He obviously noticed my fear, because he added, "but don't worry, I'm only going to kill ya." He roughly grabbed me by the waist, and pulled me onto a dining chair.

I tried to resist but he was just too strong. Instead, I let out a moan of pain.

The fireplace was crackling with activity. Suddenly, I found myself mesmerised by the flames.

"The whole house is empty," he said in response to my weak scream.

_Sherlock and John are at the Yard, but Mrs Hudson... _He seemed to read my mind.

"Your landlady is away, darling, and so is the flat above, so there is no point in raising your voice. We're all locked in, nice and smug." He leaned against the chair across the table.

Something seemed strange, though. At last I was able to mutter something.

"Still... it's... a risk... isn't it?"

Although surprised to hear me say something, he didn't hesitate to respond. He raised his eyebrow.

_"You call that a risk?" __  
_  
He smoothly pulled something out of his trousers pocket. _Two small, clear bottles_.

"_This_... is a risk," and he slammed the two items onto the table. Inside the bottles were identical white pills. _What the...?_

I looked up to see a grin on his aged, twisted face. His glasses were slipping down his nose, and his grey hair was unruly. Ignoring my gaze, he gently opened the two bottles and took the pills out of them. He placed them carefully in front of the bottles on the table, both equal distances from his hands.

He leant forward. "You want to know how I made them take the poison?" he let out a small chuckle. "You're smart; you're going to love this!"

"How?" I asked. My voice cracked. From anxiety, fear, or pure discomfort, I did not know.

"Take a moment, get yourself together," he said with an almost kind voice. I sighed deeply, and he added, _"I want your best game."_

I blinked my eyes, and refocused on his sludgy-grey ones. "My best _what?_" The tranquiliser in my system seemed to take me away again, and I let my head drop to the table. _Monica! Wake up!_

"I know how you are, Monica." I wasn't surprised how he knew my name. He must have seen my credit card whilst rootling around in my purse or something.

"I know how all police officers are." He narrowed his eyes, and stared unseeingly at me. "They always want to be right. They want to be... _perfect_... in their job." He jolted back to the matter at hand. "So come on, let me play this game with you."

"Wait, so let me guess," I said shrewdly, raising my head off the wooden table. "You're one of the _smart _ones, right?"

"Don't look like the type, do I?" he asked, laughing more at himself than at me. "The funny little man drives a _cab_." I noted the strange use of the third person.

"Who are you?" I asked suspiciously.

He smiled insanely. "Nobody, really. For now."

I sighed, and looked back to the pills lying on the table.

"Two pills," I said pointing a weak finger at them.

"Yes exactly!" The cabbie now seemed manic. "A _good_ pill... and a _bad _one. Take the good pill; you live. Take the bad one; you die." _Wow, some reward that is._

"And you know which is which?" I asked still in disbelief of my situation.

"Of course I know!"

"But I don't..."

"Well, it wouldn't be a game if _you_ knew. You're the one who chooses.

I squeezed my eyes tight, calculating the odds. "That's not a game, that's chance."

"I've played four times and I'm still alive." He cocked his head to the side, and leant forward again. "That's not chance, Miss Smith... _it's chess_."

He was leaning back during my silence, and I was reminded of a serpent eyeing up its prey.

"It's a game of chess, with _one_ move and _one_ survivor. And _this_-" he took the pill to his right, "-is the move."

He slid it closer to me.

I glared down at the pill, realising that this could be the last thing that I would ever swallow.

"But now, you just have to deduce whether this is the _good_ pill, or the _bad_ pill. You can chose either you want."

"That's what you did?" I asked, trying to buy time. _No, you're interested in how it's done. Don't lie to yourself, Monica._ "To all of them? The victims- you gave them a choice?"

His eyes narrowed.

"Time's up. Choose." _Damn_.

He nodded his head in the direction of the pill laying the closest to me.

"And then?" I asked.

"And then together, we'll take them. You- the one that _you_ chose, and I- the one that remains." He licked his teeth gruesomely with his tongue. I turned my eyes from the sight.

_This isn't logical!_

"But it's a fifty-fifty chance!" I yelled.

"You're not playing the _numbers,_ you are playing _me!" _His anger ravaged his face, and I was suddenly very frightening. I could feel my clothes sticking to my skin with sweat.

"Did I just give you the good pill, or the bad pill? _That's_ the question you are looking for."

I couldn't concentrate anymore. Everything was twisting again.

"A bluff? Or a double bluff?" he asked again. He was seriously working at my nerves. "Or even a_ triple_ bluff?"

"It's still a chance" I murmured.

"Four people in a row is not chance, it's-"

"_Luck!"_

"-_Cleverness!"_ he now yelled back. "I know what people think, Miss Smith. I _know_ what people think _I _think. I can see it _all..._ like a map... in my head."

I groaned again, feeling incredibly nauseous.

"Maybe, of course, it's just that God loves me"

I chuckled darkly. "Either way, you're _wasted_ as a cabbie." _Get. Him. Talking! _"So how did you choose the victim?"

"Anyone would do. Either drunk... or lost... or just new in town." he chuckled again. "Anyone that could walk through the wrong door."

_Confused. _"You risked your life five times _just _so you could kill strangers?"

His face crumpled for an infinitesimal moment. I seemed to have hit something in him. Hard. Eyebrows furrowed, I glance him over, and suddenly I realise. **_Dying_**_._

"You don't have long anymore, do you?"

He smiled. _Correct, Monica._

"Aneurysm. Up here," he taps his temple, "Any breath could be my last."

Simultaneously, I could hear cars stop on the front of the building. With bated breath, I look at the opposite wall, and release it with relief when it reflects flashing blue and red lights.

The phone rings. I look at it. _John?... Sherlock?_

"That's the police," I said.

His voice drips with sarcasm. "I know; I'm dying, not blind."

I stood up and moved towards the phone. My hand is outstretched to the handset, when I hear a click of a barrel.

"You make the slightest move to that phone, and I will kill you."

And that's when I know. That it's an empty threat. "Oh, I don't think so. Not your style, is it?" I turn to look at him, and glance with distain at the sidearm he's aiming at me. "And _that's_ not a real handgun- I know one when I see one."

Smiling slightly, he pockets it again without a word. He does, however, continue.

"You want to risk it? Wouldn't you rather risk _this_?" He pointed his long, gnarled finger at the pill.

I swallowed. Keeping my eyes trained on the pill, I walk slowly back over, and sit in the chair once again. My head is suddenly crystal-clear.

"Which one do you think? Which one is the good pill?" I bite my lip, deep in concentration. But the cabbie is impatient. "_Come on!"_

I started to see that there was no option, no way out, and slowly pointed my finger at one of the pills. The one nearest to himself. He looks surprised, yet delighted._Shit._

"Oh! That one?" He shrugs. "Alright, we'll see."

I move my hand over the pill.

Pick it up in my right hand.

Lock eyes with him; see that he's mirrored me.

I'm about to put it onto my tongue, when I heard someone, presumably a police officer, screams incomprehensibly.

A loud gunshot cracks through the tense silence, and the old man is blown back from the table, toppling over and tangling in the broken chair.

I, however, have thrown myself to the floor, and as I glance at him, a deadly, black puddle is growing from the hole right between his eyes. Eyes which are no longer seeing.

Almost retching out of shock, I scramble upright.

"Who is shooting? Who the_ hell_ is shooting?!" I could hear Lestrade.

Clinging to the curtains, I look out of the smashed window, surprised.

I turned back and I stared at the dead body lying in front of me. _How the hell did somebody shoot him?_

The true depth of the situation hadn't really registered, so I leant back against the wall, slid down it to the floor, and sat there looking to nothing in particular, my legs pulled up to my chest.

I heard footsteps coming down to my apartment. The door slammed open and a whole team of police agents entered the room.

One spots me on the floor, and comes over. Kneels down in front of me.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" she asked me.

I weakly nodded my head. "I've been drugged but I don't know, I don't really feel it anymore..."

There were already nurses on their way with a stretcher, but I dismissively waved my hand and only accepted the help of an officer to bring me outside. I'm brought to the ambulance just so I can be checked up.

After around ten minutes of response tests, I'm huddled under a red shock blanket, with a lifeless look on my face. _I just saw somebody get killed. I was almost killed._

I wasn't a soldier, or a spy. I was simply good at blending into the background. Tracking people and being able to know their life's story from one short look. I followed suspects, not murder them.

I looked around me and suddenly noticed Sherlock and John standing on the other side of the street.

I heaved myself up, and cautiously meandered my way to them- I still didn't quite trust the ground yet.

"John? Sherlock? What-" I asked with raised eyebrows.

Immediately, John hugged me and I felt his hand stroke the back of my head. _This, actually, is just what I need. _I slumped into his embrace, and his body subtly shifted to compensate my weight.

"Are you okay, Monica?" His voice was so gentle. "How are you feeling? Do you want to talk about it?" He was firing questions at me but I didn't care. Everything that entered my ear left it.

I looked at Sherlock, who was uncomfortably shifting back and forth on his feet. Assuring a sceptical John that I was perfectly fine, I untangled myself from him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and spoke.

"I heard he was shot. Good one. Right between the eyes." He looked at me pointedly.

I nodded. Why _was he being so nervous? How long have John and Sherlock been here?_

They had tracked the guys' phone down, that's for sure. I looked at the building behind them and saw the curtain in the window, fluttering slightly from the breeze entering the gap. I glanced behind me, realising that you could see the dining table in my flat from there.

I turn back to Sherlock in wonder. _Did Sherlock do it? Did Sherlock shoot him?_

He saw me staring at him and tried to divert me from the idea.

"Shall we have lunch? I'm hungry. Are you two hungry?" he said, looking at John and I.

I nodded but John just stared at his flatmate. Suddenly, I registered what Sherlock said. _Did he just say that he was hungry? _

We heard John's name suddenly, and I glanced past Sherlock and John to the caller- Lestrade. He beckoned him over. John went to him, and I heard him assuring my boss that he would take care of me. Whilst he was busy, I stepped closer to Sherlock.

I took a deep breath. "Why did you save me?"

He seemed to look surprised that I knew that he did it.

"I-" He broke off, and looked away. A red tinge crept to his cheeks. "I... still don't know... everything about you..." Green eyes fixed with mine. "You fascinate me. Let me tell you that."

Wow. _Wait a fucking minute.  
_

_He saved me just to know more about me?_

Not because he cared?

Not because

_I could have _died_?_

Anger overcame me, and before I knew it, my palm had made contact with his face. The crack echoed around the street, but many paid little heed. Sherlock was blinking rapidly, his head lowered and cocked in the direction of my slap.

Lifting his gaze to me, he appeared simultaneously surprised and angry.

"_That, _Sherlock Holmes, is for saving me _just because_ you want to 'know more about me'..." I said, panting and chest heaving. _Bloody hell, this took a lot of energy_.

Eyes softening slightly, he gently rubbed his nose.

Why I did what I did next, I'm still unsure. But I put my face really close to his, cheek to cheek, and whispered, "But _this_, is for saving my life anyway."

I stood up on tiptoes, and I kissed his nose slowly and gently.

His blush deepened, and I swear I saw a tiny glimmer of a smile. Not the typical Holmes smirk, but a genuine grin you see on small children, and my heart did a strange kind of flutter.

_What the..._

On cue, John returned to us, and we all strolled from the throng of people, heading for lunch.

Sherlock was quiet, but still carried on the conversation unheeded by that strange little moment.

"I know a very good restaurant nearby, let's go there."

His coat billowed out behind him, and as I thrust my hands deep into my pockets, I followed John and him.

Somehow, with Sherlock Holmes, I see the battlefield.

_And it feels like home._

* * *

**QUESTION**

**So I have a little question here. Mycroft doesn't know about Monica yet. But he will eventually.**

**Now my question is; How do you want that Mycroft gets to know Monica? **

**Should it be a weird situation... a normal one... leave the answer in a review! **

**It would be lovely if you left an idea from how that you want him to get her to know! **

**If I like it, I will try to use it! Of course I will say that you gave me the lovely idea!**

**Feel free to leave it in a review!**

**_Review and make my day!_**

**(Don't forget to follow this fic so you can stay updated for further updates.)**


	6. Mycroft knows it all Part I

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**48 reviews and only 5 chapters? OMG I feel so bad for not being able to write more for you all! But it's vacation, so I'll be updating a bit more this week. I said that I wasn't going to be able to always update within 2 days... so yeah sorry for the late update. Both Anna and I had a hard week and I hope you can forgive us for not updating that quickly this week! **

**So yeah, I asked for idea's and I got them! Thank you for that! I used some of them; Valerie Michaelis, Guest and Conni. Thank you so much for the idea's! I hope I don't disappoint you. For the others with their idea; I'm sorry I didn't use it, but maybe next chapter... who knows?**

**Again thank you all for reviewing! You don't know how happy you make Anna and me with those reviews! **

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 6: Mycroft knows it all Part I**

**MONICA'S POV**

The weather is different today. The atmosphere in 221 Baker Street was considerably brighter with the sun shining through the windows, and the walls soaking in the warmth.

The incident with the cabbie was only three weeks ago and as far as being kidnapped was concerned, I was over it. _Well, pretty much._

Only the nightmares got a bit worse.

Sipping at a cup of sweet tea, I was leaning against the windowsill of 221B's living room, and smiling at the world passing by in the London morning rush. John was busy in his room and Sherlock was wandering around in the small kitchen.

As well as watching the people below, I was half-listening to whatever crap television show was playing, and not paying much attention to the detective skulking in the other room.

Sherlock was still perplexed as to some details about my story, but he was equally anxious to riddle it out. But I kept silent, enjoying the feeling of being special in those circumstances. _Between gruelling work schedules, and helping those two with their cases, teasing Sherlock is the most fun I get._

John entered the room in a hurry, and broke me out of your reverie.

"Monica, I need your opinion; how does this look?" he said, standing a little bashful in the door opening. Tearing my gaze from the street, I looked at John who was obviously going somewhere. His arms were lifted a little from his sides, as if he's a bird about to take flight.

He wore a shirt and jeans, but both were somewhat neater and dapper than usual.

_Bloody hell! _"You look good John! I'm impressed! To be honest, I didn't think you were such a guy to be conscious about his appearance." I answered, still gazing at him and finished with a small wink. _Wait... _"Who's the lucky girl?" I asked shrewdly but with a smile.

He smiled a little, obviously proud of his date.

"Sarah? Met her at work a few years ago," he continued, more for Sherlock's benefit than for mine. "She's given me another chance."

Sherlock just looked at John without saying anything.

"Well, have fun!" I was pleased for John; he deserved this. But, I was jealous that he had something to do this evening, instead of just lounging around 221B all day.

"Ah, cheers, Monica- I will!" he cried, before whirling around, and skipped out the door, closing it behind him. I took my mobile phone just to check the time, when Sherlock slumped into his armchair in front of me.

"Why do you check your phone when you have no texts?" he asked, still firing questions at me. He had been doing that for the past fortnight and it was becoming rather annoying. Glancing up to glare at him, his fingers are once again steepled under his chin, facing away from me.

"I was just checking the time..." I started to murmur, typing in the password, but caught the date on my screen. Nearly dropping my tea, I zoned out in panic. "Shit..."

Sherlock turned to look at me with bemusement at my profanity. "What is it?" he enquired with a delicately raised eyebrow.

_Shit, bugger, fuck, bugger, shit. _"I forgot that my father's birthday is in two days... Oh God, he will hate me if I don't send him something..." I trail off, my mind racing in panic. I double-checked the date and sat up straighter, going through the possibilities available to me in order to find a present for him.

Standing up absent-mindedly, I placed my empty mug on the dining table and walked towards the door, but Sherlock followed.

"What are you going to do?" he asked right behind me.

I was already on my way to the landing, grabbing my coat off the banister on the way. "Well, isn't it obvious?" Tapping pockets for purse, keys, phone. "I'm going to go shopping for my father."

Reaching the top of the stairs, I turned back to him. He leant against the door jam, hands in his trouser pockets. Bending down to slip on my heels, I looked away.

"You can come with me if you're bored- I could do with some help," I called to him, now making my way downstairs.

Silence. _Hmm.  
_

I got to the front door, and realised that Sherlock hadn't followed. _Odd... Why doesn't he want to come?_

Puzzled, I jogged back up to him, into the living room and saw that he was sitting in his armchair again. "Aren't you coming with me?" I asked, placing a hand on the side of the wall.

He had his head tilted back, and gazed unseeingly at the ceiling. His neck was pale and long, and looked really soft. _Shut up, Monica._

He drawled, "Why would I? I'm perfectly entertained as I am now, and I don't need to help you with picking out a present for your father."

"I could use a male opinion about the present-"

"I can't help you with that. Presents are useless. Boring." He sighed, and sat up again, fixing me dead in the eye with those grass green orbs of his. _Shut. UP. _Sherlock continued, unheeded. "It's only to show off how much money a person has, or to show that they are kind enough to give one to them. Presents are unnecessary," he snapped, with a cold voice.

I nearly laughed. _Seems like _someone _didn't get a lot of presents then._

Changing tack, I bribed instead- I did kind of want the company. "Well, if you come with me... you can ask me one question and I'll answer it," I said casually, gauging his expression, "I know you want to." _C'mon, give in already._

Despite the temptation, Sherlock seemed to doubt and just stared at me, considering this option.

Eventually, "Fine." He stood up and grabbed his long coat off the back of John's armchair, and put on his scarf. I turned and walked back down the stairs and out of the front door. He closed it after me, and we went down the stones steps to the pavement.

"Do you know any shops for men's clothing out here?" I asked whilst putting my hand in the air, waving for a cab to pull over.

One promptly drove over, and as we clambered inside, Sherlock just said a name of a street where I supposed some shops to be. I was happy to gaze out of the window at the cityscape flying past, but I did notice that he remained remarkably quiet throughout the ride.

We arrived within ten minutes, and as he paid the cab driver, I climbed out as elegantly as possible, and was confronted with a big shop, modelling lot of expensive clothes for men in the windows.

"Are you sure I'll be able to pay for that? It seems a bit expensive here..." I said, looking at the items shown on the mannequins. He just harrumphed and strode inside, myself meekly following. We stopped at a collection of men clothing.

"Just find something so we can go as quickly as possible." he snapped.

Aghast, I replied, "Sherlock! You don't get it do you?" He looked at me, expressionless. "Presents are fun to get, and it might take a while before I decide what to buy him!" I returned to flicking through the clothes on the rail in front of me. Sherlock looked a little shocked at my outburst, but quickly hid it, and thrust his hands into his coat pockets.

I came across a jumper which, in some way, reminded me of John. _It'd look nice. _Smiling, I put it back and returned to the matter at hand- currently making my way along the long rail stretching through the shop.

Sherlock sighed deeply and leaned against the wall. I pulled out a beige shirt and looked at it, weighing it up.

"Don't pick that one! It's awful!" He reprimanded with a loathsome glare, "Just look at the fabric; it's polyester! Nobody likes to wear that!"

_So Mr Holmes doesn't only know a lot about murder, but also a lot about fabrics? Surprising._

I hung it back on the rack and meandered through the shop, leaving Sherlock standing by himself.

Apparently, they sold a lot of stuff for men here. But there weren't that many costumers in the store. _Probably because it's quite expensive here. And it's only 1 p.m. _

Glancing around for something to catch my eye, I noticed a strange man standing in front of a rack to my left.

He seemed to be fascinated by something on the shelf. _What was he looking at? _I moved closer as inconspicuously and casually as possible, and ended up practically next to him.

He noticed my staring and turned around. It was a man; hair combed back off his pointed, somewhat handsome face. His eyes were like a hawk's, and his expression reeked of distain and intelligence. He was somewhat older than John I guessed, and he was wearing an expensive suit. _Probably from this store as well._

The funny thing was that he was holding an umbrella, yet it isn't even raining.

"I'm sorry, can I help you?" he asked almost too politely. I, on the the other hand, couldn't shake off the feeling that I had seen him before somewhere before.

"I'm sorry; no, I was just looking around-" I started, but was broke off by an angry Sherlock who was pretty much stamping towards me.

"You didn't quite have to leave me like _that,_ did you?" He asked angrily.

But once he saw the person next to me, his breath caught and Sherlock Holmes spluttered. Glancing up in confusion, the man beside me looked surprised also, and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. I looked at them both and noticed the small tension between the two.

"Sorry, but do you know each other?" I asked cautiously. _Why do I feel as if we're standing on a time-bomb..._

Sherlock was the first to answer.

"Sadly enough, yes." He didn't look away from the man. I stared at him confused.

Something inside of me woke up and the identity of the stranger suddenly clicked.

"Can it be that... that I _have_ seen you before?" I asked the man. He looked surprised at me, and managed a slight smile. More of a quirk of the corner of his mouth._Kinda looks adorable._

"I'm sorry- from where do you think we know each other?" He glanced back at Sherlock who again appeared to be confused rather than angry.

_I'm sure that's where I saw him. _"I'm not sure, but is it possible that you were the organiser of a conference in Belgium about homeland security in Western Europe?" I rambled on. "Only I was one of the agents attending on behalf of Belgium, I was standing outside the building when you arrived..." I trailed off, but he politely replied.

"I haven't been in Belgium for quite some time now, but yes, that may be possible. I'm sorry but I didn't recognise you-"

I interrupted, "Oh no, that's quite alright! I'm surprised that even _I_ remember _you_." _Must have been that umbrella... Wait- _"Your name was an archaic, old English one, right? Like... Mycrosft? Mycrosoft?"

Sherlock chuckled and stared at me in delight.

The man mumbled something.

Sherlock provided the gap. "His name is Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes."

I gasped, gazing between the two of them. No _way that this man was Sherlock his father. They don't even look remotely like each other! _

"Monica Smith," I put my hand in front of me in his direction. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes."

He shook my hand and I couldn't help but notice that he was much nicer, _warmer, _ than Sherlock.

"Likewise, Miss Smith. And please do call me Mycroft." He smiled friendly at me. _I could like him._

He gave Sherlock a small look, and narrowed his eyes with a mockingly concerned gaze at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you didn't tell me you had company apart from Doctor Watson!" he said, turning his relation and inclining his head towards me.

"You didn't ask," Sherlock simply answered.

Mycroft smiled, looked at his watch and returned his gaze to me.

"It's a shame that I have to go Miss Smith. I would_ love_ to talk to you once again..." he said hurriedly. _Bless him._

"I would love that, Mr Holmes," I said, "Please do not let me make you any later."

Mycroft inclined his head again in a gentlemanly manner, smoothly hefted his slim umbrella under his arm, and strode briskly out of the shop. "Goodbye, Sherlock!" he called as he disappeared from view.

_Wow. Well, that was weird._

"You really don't look like your father, do you?"

Sherlock's face was almost comical. "He isn't my _father! _How could you _possibly_ think _that?"_ Sherlock shook his head. "He's my brother."

_Wow, there's the second shock. _

We strolled leisurely towards the entrance. "He just seemed to care for you."

A scornful look crossed Sherlock's features. "He does _not,_ I can assure you of that."

I took the subject to be closed, so I didn't bring it up again and we left the shop empty handed.

...

The trip into the city could not have gone worse, present-buying wise.

Back at the flat I went to my room and started hunting arounf for a sketchpad and my pencil tin. I could draw something for my dad; that will actually go down better than buying something from a shop, which was far too expensive to begin with.

I found a solitary 2B pencil and an A5 sketchpad, barely used. _Well... my dad was getting a pretty rubbish birthday card this year._

Sherlock slammed my door open and entered my room. I jerked up from under my bed, promptly banging it head on the frame. _Fuck ouch fuck ouch fuck ouch._

Rubbing it furiously, blinking back tears, he was stood in my doorway, breathing hard.

"What was your nightmare about, three weeks ago? You promised that you would answer," he interrogated, sitting on my bed.

"Oh, Sherlock- can't you see I'm a little busy now?" I clambered upright. "I didn't buy anything, so I'm just going to make a thing for him instead." I walked out of the bedroom, Sherlock on my heels, "If you would please leave me alone just for a second..." I grabbed my chair at the dining table and putting the pencil and the paper down onto the table.

I could feel his eyes on me, and as I turned, I was met with two green orbs not three inches from my own.

"But you _promised!"_ he yelled back.

"Fine! You don't have to shout!" I said, annoyed, "Why is it so goddamn important to you anyway?"

"It seemed to have touched John in some kind of way. It's annoying me that I can't figure out what it was about..."

His eyes flicked away momentarily on the last bit, and I knew he was lying. He saw my hand go to my stomach back then, and I bet John will have let some things slip already.

"You already know what it was about Sherlock," I mumbled, turning away and sitting down at the table, "you just want to hear it from me."

The man as least had the decency to sound the tiniest bit contrite. "Yes, well; that's quite true." He took the chair opposite me, flinging himself down gracefully._How is that even possible?_ "Now tell me; how did you survive?"

I hesitated slightly. "I was strong enough to pull him away eventually, but mainly I was lucky that an older man walked past, and called an ambulance and the police."

Sherlock made a sound of relief. _Like he was correct in some way._ There was a small moment of silence.

Tactfully, he changed topic, and I was glad. "What are you going to draw for your father?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I don't know; I have a lack of inspiration at the moment." I looked hopelessly around the flat, looking for something that I could draw.

"He is happy with most things I've done so far, so it doesn't really matter."

Sherlock remained silent.

"Are you going to sit there the whole time?" I enquired, curious.

He didn't answer- just nodded his head slowly. His eyes were clouded over, zoned out, and stared at a void above my head. _So it was time for the mind palace again? Perfect! _

I started marking the shape of a head. Sherlock noticed that I had become quiet and that my pencil was emitting a rasping noise whilst it made contact with the paper. He just looked at me bemusedly for a second, and then returned his head to its previous position.

Half an hour passed, and my drawing was almost finished. Even to my own eyes, I must say that it looked good.

Sherlock made a noise and stood up.

He moved towards me, and peered over my shoulder.

A noise of disgust escaped his throat. "Don't give him _that!_ It doesn't even look like me!"

I gaped at him, as something inside me snapped. _Why did he have to be so cruel?_

"I'm going to give it to him, whether you like it or not." I tucked the drawing into an envelope just as we heard the front door slam shut and footsteps pounded slowly on the staircase.

"I'm back!" John called when he entered the room.

I called out, "We're down here, John!" His footsteps retreated quickly, and he strolled seconds later into the flat. I looked at him, and he seemed very happy.

"What is going on here?" he asked, looking taken aback at me and Sherlock close together. It was unusual for Sherlock and me to be in a room without John for longer than a few minutes, let alone inches apart and alone.

"Nothing special. Just having a lazy day," I answered standing up and putting the envelope away.

John didn't seem surprised. "Oh well, I'm upstairs if you need me," he glanced back at Sherlock and I, and left the room, whistling tunelessly.

Sherlock pulled out his phone as I returned from my room, and read something on the screen.

Suddenly, an electric pulse seemed to roll through him, as he practically ran out of the flat, rapidly following John up the stairs. I could hear him calling his flatmate to not go to bed yet because they had a case.

I sighed, and looked at my television. Again, an evening spent on my own.

* * *

**_Review and make my day!_**

**(Don't forget to follow this fic so you can stay updated for further updates.)**


	7. Mycroft knows it all Part II

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**Thank you all for the wonderful reviews and know that I always read them! So please keep reviewing! I hope you will enjoy this chapter.**

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 7: Mycroft knows it all Part II**

Hours later, I switched off the television and sat up. I hadn't move from the same position at all, and the late autumn sunset was flooding in through the windows. Stretching catlike, my eyes fell upon the unstuck envelope, and I frowned. _Why didn't Sherlock like the drawing?_

I mean, come it. _It really does look like him! _Reaching out for the drawing, I pull it out and affirmed my opinion. _Ugh, sometimes the guy really does need something thrown at him._

Looking at my watch, I realised that I had about five minutes until the post was collected for the next day's delivery. Hurriedly, I scrawled the address on the front, hunted for my shoes whilst slipping on my coat. Within seconds, I was jogging out of 221 Baker Street, searching for the post-box I spotted earlier.

As I loped over to it on the other side of the road, I realised that I had crossed the exact spot were the cabbie kidnapped me three weeks ago. Smiling sadly, I slipped the envelope into the box, just as a Royal Mail van turned the corner, heading towards me.

I buried my hands in my pockets, now grinning at the thought of my father opening the card. _He's going to love it!_

As I looked back and forth down Baker Street for cars, I noticed a sleek, shiny black sedan purr up to 221. _Hmm- I wonder what's going on?_

I crossed towards it, as a woman gracefully climbed out and proceeded to stand beside the car.

"Excuse me, but may I ask what is happening here?" I'd like to say I was curious, but actually more annoyed that this was obviously yet _another_ little snippet of information kept from me.

Looking more closely at the woman in front of me, I saw that she was... well, _gorgeous_. Her long, smooth, black curly hair was swept behind her ears and framed by a pair of pearl earrings. Her face was immaculately made up, and her stature was curvy- beautifully so. This was accentuated by her gorgeous clothing. It reminded me of the shop Sherlock and I visited today.

She stared at me coolly and answered, "I have to ask you to step into the car and to not ask any further questions."

_Whoa, sweetheart, calm down. _My muscles tensed at the cold in her voice, and I suddenly felt... not in danger, as such... but definitely dangerously propositioned.

My reply was as cold as hers. "And what if I told you that I won't come with you?" I asked. _That's right, I asked a question honey. Not so smug now, are you._

The woman just raised an eyebrow and stared at me impassively. Seeing that I was getting nowhere, I glanced around for any other pedestrians should this turn nasty. Her eyebrows furrowed, and I sighed deeply in resignation, and slid into the open car.

I looked around at my surroundings as she strode around the back of the car, and sat down next to me on the other side.

"Can I at least know your name, and where we are going to?" _A girl can have only so many mysterious puzzles in life. I don't think my sanity will handle any more._

She was suddenly very interested in her mobile phone, the light illuminating her face and casting attractive shadows on her cheekbones. _I wonder if Sherlock's do that? His are practically chiselled stone. _The clicking of the keys continued as I stared at her, awaiting a reply.

She seemed to have evaluated her response, as she finally replied with, "My name is Anthea, and the one that requires you is Mr. Mycroft Holmes. I presume you remember him from earlier this morning?"

Startled, I nodded quietly and turned my head away. The streets of London were gliding rapidly past, but my eyes did not truly see them. _Why did I have to go to Mycroft in such a way? Couldn't he come to 221 Baker Street himself?_

_And I thought he was_ busy?

After around twenty minutes of driving in silence, the car purred to a stop and I got out. As was habit, I looked around, calculating my surroundings, and was surprised to learn that despite what instinct should have told me, we were in a perfectly street, barely outside of London city centre.

_Why would we have driven so long for just to travel to a street like every other? Why all the mystery and smoked mirrors, then?_

Hardly diverting her attention from her phone, Anthea lazily indicated with her pointed finger at a restaurant on the other side of the street.

"You may enter that establishment." I glared at her, and crossed the road, too indignant to answer her. _It's not like she deserved a thank you or anything. _I stepped inside the rather large and expensive-looking restaurant, and immediately noticed that there weren't any other customers. The hairs prickled at the back of my neck.

A waiter in a black and white tux- _wow, honey, you look like an idiot-_ came up to me with a polite smile and primly asked, "Please, ma'am, if you'd like to follow me; he is waiting for you upstairs."

I nodded and pursued his flapping tailcoats up a grand staircase.

When we arrived on the plush carpeted landing, the waiter held open a small door with a small bow. I entered through with trepidation, and the door shut. The waiter had left me behind. Returning my attention to the small room, I saw a silhouetted figure sitting in a chair by a roaring fireplace.

"Good evening Miss. Smith. Please, take a seat," a voice came, softly. In his hand, he held a tumbler of amber liquid. _Smells like Scotch. Brandy? No, Scotch. He looks the type._

After a moment's hesitation I sat down to the opposite of him, smoothing my skirt with my left hand. I leant back, and smiled into the fireplace.

"You know, you could have just come by at my place instead, without all this intrigue..." I said teasingly, but we both knew I was serious.

"And risk catching the attention of Sherlock when I could be so discreet?" Mycroft Holmes answered simply, leaning forward and furtively his eyes roamed my face. I stared right back, without response.

The elder Holmes carried on.

"Now, my dear, one simple question," he asked, his tone indicating business, as he swigged from his crystal tumbler, "what is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?"

His half lit face seemed suddenly demonic, and I was stunned into silence. _Where did the kind gentleman from earlier disappear to?! _My eyes narrowed. _Gosh, darling, you and your brother do have the mercurial quality, don't you._

"I have only known him for three and a half weeks, Mycroft," I answered, suddenly pissed off. _Hell, did I come all the way to this restaurant for just one stupid question? Bloody hell._

"And yet he is already shopping with you?" his perfect eyebrow- _whoa- bit camp to be plucking eyebrows, Mr Holmes-_ raised even higher, and his smile suddenly made me feel nauseated.

He continued. "Miss Smith, he _never_ enters _any_ shop, and I can assure you that even rarer is that he certainly does not do so with someone else."

_I bet you're fun at parties._

"Excuse me for my obvious lack of understanding, but I fail to see why you are so interested in my relationship with him, and how it has any relevance to yourself?"

"Your _relationship_ with him?" he asked. I didn't think his eyebrows could rise any higher.

Backtracking, I thought about what I said and something hit me. _Oh no I can't say it like that! _

"Oh god- my mistake- I mean-" I spluttered, panicking. "The point was; why are you so interested in what I do with Sherlock?"

He sighed- I supposed he was relieved that he was correct in some way.

"I just like to know with who he talks to. Can you imagine how many friends he has?"

_Oh... so he was just worried about his little brother. How... quaint._

"Only John and I have at least some kind of bond with him, and however hard we try, he still would accompany us in such a menial activity as _shopping. _So tell me; what did he want from you?"

_How did he knew that Sherlock wanted to know something from me?_

"I may be wrong, but that may be none of your business-"

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't," he interrupting so calmly that it annoyed me.

He leant back, and ran a long, willowy finger around the lip of his glass. "_So_... you told me you saw me in Belgium when you were a security officer... Are you working for the police here in England? The Met, I take it?"

_Nice change of subject. _"Strictly speaking, I am employed by your MI5- the Security Service. In Belgium, I was a covert intelligence officer for the Staatsveiligheid, but transferred to MI5." I sighed, gazing into the fire nostalgically. "It took about a year, but finally my transfer was approved after _countless _tests and petitions for an English citizenship..."

Mycroft was nodding, enraptured by my speech. It was quite flattering, actually, so I proceeded.

"So I moved here, and am on loan to Scotland Yard as a Directed Surveillance agent- basically just covert monitoring of any targets that I am briefed to observe."

Humming slightly, Mycroft stood gracefully, and strode over to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself another glass. He indicated the decanter to me, inviting me for a drink, of which I refused.

"It's all very nice sharing stories with you, Mr Holmes, but what do you really want from me?" _No games... no _playing _anymore.  
_  
"Well," he began, sitting back down and crossing his long legs elegantly, "since you are staying at 221b Baker Street indefinitely, you will see Sherlock every day-"

"You assume correct, but... why do you ask?"

His expression darkened. "I would like to offer you a substantial amount of money to use your particular skills to observe my baby brother, and report to me what you find out."

"Surely as his family, he tells you everything." I counterargued, already knowing that that was not the case.

He sighed dramatically. "You would think that, but Sherlock doesn't like me to know him."

"So let me get this straight," I said, leaning forward, my elbows balanced on my knees, "you want me to _spy_ on Sherlock for money?" _It's not as if you _are_ going to do it, Monica. God knows you wouldn't get away with any amount of espionage in 221B._

"Yes, I do."

I pondered. "Hmm... _no_."

Mycroft chuckled. "I knew you would say that." He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small leather notebook. "_Trust issues..._"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You have trust issues, and of all people you have trusted Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Hamish Watson enough to move in with them in the same house."

_The fucking bastard! "_So you've read my medical records too?!" Anger was threatening to rise in me.

"Of course I have- all for insurance," he waved his hand infinitesimally in dismissal, "Now I have gotten your choice, you now may go."

When I didn't move, Mycroft cocked his head to one side. "Or do I have to force you, Miss Smith?"

"You can try."

He chuckled, "You don't seem very afraid."

_Ha. _"Funnily enough, you don't seem very frightening."

Mycroft set his glass on the spindle table beside his armchair. "Yes. The bravery of the soldier... well, maybe not a soldier in your case- a secret agent- but brave, nonetheless." He seemed to contemplate his next few words. "Bravery is _by far_ the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

_Whatever, honey. _He seemed to want to drive his point home. "For the last time, what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one. I barely know him. And for the final time, it's really none of your business."

"Do you plan to continue your association with him?"

"Please consult my previous answer."

He appraised me. "You're very loyal, very quickly."

"No, Mr Holmes, I'm not. I'm just not interested."

"Trust issues, Miss Smith... Could it be you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?"  
**  
"You tell me," he countered, adamantly. "**I imagine other people have already warned you to stay away from him but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

"My _what?" _I asked, perplexed.

Mycroft held out his hand for my own. I went to pass it without thinking, but suddenly retracted it. "Don't –" but he'd grabbed it before I could bring it back to my body.

**"**Remarkable."

" What is?"  
**  
"**Most people- not just foreigners like yourself, Miss Smith- blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. The boring life." He lifted his gaze to mine. "When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the _battlefield_. Not war, necessarily, but danger. Adrenalin. Strategy and tactics. _A battlefield of wits and strength and intelligence. _You've seen it already, haven't you?"

_How could he _possibly_ know about the rapist?! _"What's wrong with my hand?!"

**Mycroft smiled gently.** "You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand, which occurs when you move it towards your stomach out of reflex." My breath halts,_"Your doctor, military therapist and previously commanding officer all_ think it's a reaction from the trauma you underwent last year-"

_STOP- "IT!" _ I scream, panting fast. "Who the _hell_ are you?! How do you know that?!"

He sighed heavily, and dropped my hand. Instead, he stared into the fire. After a while, Mycroft stands, and gazes down at me. His mouth is twisted into an impish, cold grin, but his eyes are clouded. I'd say it was from sympathy, but now I would never know.

"It's a good thing you left the Belgian Service," he replied, "They got it the wrong way around. You're under stress, and reliving trauma right now, and your hand is perfectly steady, and you're not even clutching your stomach."

He leant down, until his eyes, so green like his brother's, were boring into mine. "You're not haunted by the incident, _Agent _Monica Smith... _You miss it_."

I stared back, spellbound and speechless.

"Welcome back," he whispered.

_Dramatic. So _that's_ where Sherlock got it from.  
_  
Whilst I regained the power speech, he sat back into his chair. "So that's it? I came all this way to you for _this_?"

"Yes, I believe so." He didn't bother to even look at me. "Time to pick a side, Miss Smith."

I sighed in derision and stood up- just too tired to carry on into a further conversation with this son of a bitch, and I headed to the door.

"I will see you soon, Miss Smith." He called lazily after me. It sounded almost flirtatious, and shivers scurried up and down my spine. _Oh for the love of mercy, please do not do that to me again._

I retraced my steps back down the staircase, nodded thanks to the waiter from earlier, and found the car still outside. Anthea brought back home to 221B, and I saw Sherlock and John standing in front of the front door. Sherlock looked impassive, but John had his arms crossed, and the expression of thunder, but I doubted it was directed at me.

_Oh god... What were they doing home so early?_

I climbed out of the car gingerly onto the pavement, and as the car pulled away, I mounted the steps up to the two men above me.

"Hey Monica, where were you?" John asked with a friendly tone. I smiled, and shivered in the chill of the evening. John proceeded to unlock the door, with his attention still on me.

Sherlock just observed with a puzzled face.

"You are never going to believe it, but I just went outside to post my envelope whe-"

"When Mycroft, I assume, told you to follow Anthea." Sherlock interrupted me.

I gaped at him. John just sighed. _Will _anything_ about the Holmes family _not_ surprise me?!_

"It took him three weeks, I think that's a new record," he elaborated, with his face turned towards John. _So Mycroft had put John through this too?_

Sherlock returned to me. "And he offered you money to spy on me?"

I nodded meekly.

"And you refused. Well, how kind, but I would have done it. He pays well, you know."

I chuckled. _The dressing-down that guy gave me, he would have deserved me scamming him._

John opened the door and we all went inside.

I moved towards my door, my keys clanging as I pulled them out of my pocket. "See you tomorrow, boys," I bade them.

John amicably replied, and Sherlock just looked at me pointedly with derision, and went upstairs.

_And Mycroft thought that I could possibly have a relationship with that man?_

* * *

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	8. The Blind Banker Part I

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**OMG I'm so sorry for the late update! Well enjoy this chapter and leave a review please! (If you want something to be in it, just ask. I'm sure I'll put it in it because I'm running out of ideas to make the 'episodes' a bit different than in the show... )  
Thank you for all the wonderful people that reviewed/favorite/followed!**

**TheMysteriousGeek2345 I'm sorry about that!**

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 8: The Blind Banker Part I**

I sighed. Another week had ended, and I was exhausted. Despite being prepared for the amount of work that London would give me, the hours spent watching CCTV, gulping coffee whilst collating case profiles and following targets through afternoon rush hour on the Tube had winded me.

Clambering out the taxi and handing the driver a crumpled twenty, I smoothed out my skirt half-heartedly. It was creased and worn, my heels had scuffs from earlier shenanigans (whereupon Lestrade and I had chased down a major terrorist through Piccadilly Circus) and I spied a coffee stain on the lapel of my blazer.

_Time you did your washing, Monica. _Not only had I worked with the Met Police at Scotland Yard all week on catching benefit thieves and burglars, but I had been called to Thames House on Thursday in order to lend service to Special Branch.

As a result today was spent at Heathrow Airport terminals. Spotting the target, I had kept on his tail until South Kensington, listening to his mobile conversation and alerted Lestrade, and chased him through the Piccadilly tube train- tackling him as he legged it across the plaza.

_At least the arrest had been fun_. I smiled as I wearily trudged up the stone steps to 221 Baker Street, my keys jangling in my hand. Being a temporary Special Branch agent, I could use the title of 'Detective' upon arrest.

Shifting the files and envelope purse in my hands to under my arm, I leant forward to put my key in the door, and glanced down and to my left. Jogging up the pavement was John, rummaging in his pockets animatedly. I turned, smiling, and waved at him as he looked up. He grinned slightly, but his eyebrows with knitted together as he stomped up the steps.

"Hey! Everything alright, John?" I enquired with a raised eyebrow. John was usually very jovial- it did not bode well that he was in this foul mood.

"Yeah..." he trailed off, hand groping his back pocket, "well, no actually, I'm not. Sherlock was too bloody lazy to go get some pissing milk-" _Surprise, surprise... "-_so I went but I... er... got kinda mad at the... er... machine..." His cheeks reddened and he ducked his head down endearingly. I couldn't help but chuckle. He gave me a strange, heated look in response and I immediately stopped. _John's in a 'don't-fuck-with-me' mood tonight then. _I sighed. _Great._

"... and now," he said as he half heartedly patted his chest pocket, "I forgot my keys."

I smiled at him tiredly and gave a small wink, holding up my own key. "Good job I've got mine then, right?" His eyes softened from their previous hard glare, and he smiled warmly. "I'll let you in, don't worry John."

I opened the door and stood aside to let him in. John beamed as he stepped through. "Cheers, darling," he called as I shut the door, Calling a reply, I walked towards my door but John stopped me.

"Do you fancy coming upstairs?" he asked in a slightly pleading tone, "It's such a quiet day and Sherlock is bored- you know what that entails- so please feel free to join us," he looked at me like he needed me, and if he was correct about Sherlock, being up there alone would be hellish.

"Cool, fine! It's not like I have anything to do." I grinned at him and followed him upstairs. Chatting, relaxed, John opened the door and we were met with the unusually calm sight of Sherlock in his armchair, reading a book. His long limbs were slumped slightly, his legs crossed and his dark hair was more unruly than ever.

He glanced from his page, and his green eyes, luminous even from this distance, surveyed me. Inexplicably, a flush crept up into my face and my mouth went dry._Why? Why is this happening?_ It was now commonplace for me to get reactions like this. No doubt, Sherlock is a very attractive man... but when his long fingers twisted on his violin, running through his ruffled hair when boredom hit, and his whirling around in his dressing gown... _Good god._ The current predatory look in his eyes made me feel somewhat like a deer in headlights.

Sherlock returned his gaze to his novel and without looking up again, spoke to John. "You took your time." John narrowed his eyes at his flatmate.

"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping."

Sherlock jerked his head up to meet John's gaze. John, however, looked away in embarrassment. Chuckling inwardly, I noted Sherlock's puzzled reaction.

"What? Why not?" he exclaimed slightly.

It took a lot of effort to do nothing more than twist my face into a grin. "Because he had a _row_, in the _shop_, with _a chip-and-PIN machine_." I answered simply, holding back my laughter. However, a smirk had fully stretched across my face.

He looked perplexedly at me whilst John still tried to avert his gaze. "You ... you had a _row _with a _machine_?"

"...Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse." John said, dead pan. "Have you got cash?" he asked with a faint blush on his cheeks. _He really does look adorable. _

Sherlock chuckled and inclined his head. "Take my card," he offered, and John stalked out to get it. The simple instruction, however, proved to be too vague, even by Sherlock's standards; I could hear John grumbling and the unmistakable clinking of china crockery sounded through the glass door.

I yawned. _God, I need to sit down_. I flumped down into the armchair opposite Sherlock, dropping my file and bag onto the floor, and moaned with relief as I toed off my heels.

John came back into the living room, slipping Sherlock's band card into his back pocket. He grabbed the newspaper off the dining table and sank heavily down into the sofa. "You could always go yourself, you know- to the shop. You've been sitting there all morning. You've not even moved since I left," he accused.

Looking at Sherlock, I could see John had a point. He was dressed in a shirt and trousers, but was still relaxing in his thin silk dressing gown. Suddenly, I remembered something Sherlock had mentioned earlier. "And what happened about that case you were offered – the Jaria Diamond or whatever?"

Sherlock shifted in his chair, uncrossing his legs, and I heard a metallic clink. My eyes darted around him, but he hadn't looked up from his current page."Not interested. I sent them a message," he added and I raised my eyebrow. _Bloody git's being all mysterious again._ However, I noticed that he wasn't reading- his eyes were fixed on one spot on his page. _And what was that clink?_

Silence fell comfortably as John rustled his paper shut. "Well, I'm going shopping. Again." He started towards the door, but turned to me suddenly. "Oh! Monica; you haven't forgot that we're having dinner tomorrow, right?" He looked at me expectant and hopeful.

_Wha- Oh yeah!_

"No, John, I hadn't forgotten!" I beamed at him and he visibly relaxed. Out the corner of my eye, I saw Sherlock stare at me, eyebrows knitted together in a deep frown. "I'll be ready by ...seven? Yeah, seven," I confirmed, "knock on the door when you're ready to go!" I smiled crookedly at him over my shoulder.

John beamed in kind, and continued on to leave the flat.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "So... you're going to have dinner with John?" he asked, determinedly not looking at me. He sounds blasé, but I could tell he was interested. Once again, I was convinced that he was just looking at his book- his eyes, not moving, were definitely not reading. For some reason, this made me swell a little in... _happiness? _

"Ye-" The sound of a text message filled the room and immediately my eyes went to Sherlock. He looked at his mobile phone lying on the arm of his chair, screen illuminated. He picked it up delicately and tapped the screen. A smile curiously etched onto his feline features.

"Who is it?" I asked, being nosy. _It must be a case- it's not like Sherlock to text a friend_- I snorted softly- _well, I say friend... _But in answer to my question, I was met with a blank, vacant stare. _What the- _"Sherlock?"

His green eyes suddenly focused, and his book lay unheeded in his lap. "I need to go to the bank." He simply said, standing up and grabbing his coat from the cluttered dining table. He had pulled it on before I could even comprehend what he was doing.

"The bank- What- I don't-" I was feeling pretty confused at this moment, and I was floundering at the sight of Sherlock whipping around. After a few seconds, I realised Sherlock was standing at the doorway.  
"Are you coming or what?" he asked in a hurry. I hesitated, looking away from him. When I turned back, he had stretched out his hand, his long, slim, delicately pale fingers stretching out to me with a tenderness that I had never seen before. Looking up to meet his eyes, I was taken aback by the trust and openness in them. His expression remained blank, but those eyes were a marine river of compassion and faith.

_Woah, what? Where the fuck did that come from, Monica?_

I regarded his impassive face. "You actually _want_ me to come?"

"Well, yes, of course. John isn't here... or is he?" Suddenly, his eyes were wide and manic, and without pause I grabbed his hand, and I let him pull me up. I bent down to grab my purse, and slipped on my heels, hopping comicly on alternative feet. Sherlock breathed out a slight chuckle. I looked up, and a genuine smile was alit on his face. It made his ethereal features incredibly startling.

_Oh._ I blinked. And blinked again. But it wasn't until he was already leaving when I decided to physically follow him.

I looked back to the room from the doorway, making sure I had all my belongings that I would need, and a shiny glint of light hit my eye. I shifted position, and my eyes fell upon a long, steel shape under Sherlock's chair. _...Is that... a sword?! That explains that clink from earlier..._

"Monica? We need to _go_!" Sherlock called petulantly from downstairs. I smiled- it seemed that the Jaria diamond case was worth the effort and time after all.

Whipping round, I ran down the stairs and followed Sherlock Holmes out the door of 221 Baker Street.

The one thing I can say for high-end banks is that they certainly know how to not keep a customer waiting. Not five minutes after Sherlock enquired at the reception desk, we were shown into an office. Soon after, a man of approximately the same age as Sherlock walked towards us.

The suit-clad stiff grimaced in what he obviously thought to be a smile, and held out his hand. "_Sherlock Holmes_!" he said in recognition. Sherlock scowled, but met his handshake all the same.

"Sebastian."

The stiff slipped his hands into his evidently silk-lined pockets, trying- _and failing_- to adopt a casual tone. "Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Seven, no, _eight_years since I last clapped eyes on you?" he jovially asked, and Sherlock curved his mouth in one corner, utterly not amused.

Realising that he was not about to get a reply, Sebastian turned his gaze to me, and suddenly that look became hungry... like I was a wild creature that he had never seen before. I shifted uncomfortably, and Sherlock noticed it.

"This is my friend, Monica Smith." He looked to me, a small, true smile forming on his mouth. I flushed and looked away from Sherlock. _Why does that one notion seems great but disappointing, all at the same time?_ Sebastian's gaze grew appraising, and his eyebrows rose.

"Friend?" He waggled said eyebrows, in a fiendishly cringey manner.

I nodded simply, and elaborated. "We both live in the same house- we're flatmates- but yes," I explained, "friends," I stressed. Sherlock's smile faded slightly, and that puzzled me momentarily.

At Sebastian's inclination, we sat down around his desk. Sherlock's fingers were once steepled under his chin, and his expression as cold, calculating and hawklike. I couldn't suppose that Sebastian didn't notice, and I even thought that I saw a slight shudder. Sherlock finally spoke after a short pause. "So, you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot."

Sebastian looked up as Sherlock continued.

"Flying all the way round the world, twice in a month?" I looked at Sherlock too, taken aback. _Bloody hell, would I ever get used to his habits? _It seemed not-witnessing a deduction was always enlightening, and rather unnerving. This hadn't changed even over the last month.

The stiff opposite, however, seemed to take it in his stride. "_Right_... You're doing that thing."  
He looked at me with an amused smirk, his finger waggling in Sherlock's direction. I sensed the dark coated figure beside me stiffen.

"We were at uni together, This guy here had a trick he used to do-"

"It's not a trick," Sherlock hissed quietly.

"-He could look at you and tell you your whole life story." Sebastian shook his head in mock exasperation, but anyone could see that it truly irked him; maybe even freaked him out, despite all the time that had passed.

I was irritated by his assumption that I did not know Sherlock's habits. "Yes... I've seen him do it." Sebastian laughed, but my comment didn't seem to stop his annoying rambling.

"Put the wind up everybody. We _hated_ him." As soon as the words left his mouth, suddenly it struck me that Sherlock had become quieter and quieter. "You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night."

Sherlock spoke up, "I simply observed."

"Go on, enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world – you're quite right." Sebastian leaned back, looking completely disinterested in Sherlock's deduction, yet it would vex him to not know how. _Are you talking from experience, Monica?_ "How could you tell?"

Sensing that this would be a good time to say nothing, I simply sat there watching the two of them argue. I glanced at Sherlock to my right, and his hands had tensed on the armrest_. _I wanted to grab it with my own. _What?! _Coming out of my reverie, Sherlock opened his mouth but Sebastian continued speaking. _God, let the man get a word in edgeways, pal!  
_  
"You're gonna tell me there's, um, Oh! I don't know!- a stain on my tie from some special _kind of ketchup_ you can only buy in Manhattan-" I couldn't help but smile. It would be like Sherlock to notice that, but I felt it was something more simple.

"No, I ..."

"- or _maybe_ it was the mud on my shoes!" Sebastian exclaimed. By the minute, this guy was getting on my last nerve. My fingers twitched, ever so tempted to stroke the grip of my pistol in my holster, but I refrained. Sherlock glanced at me, and I had a feeling he knew my temptation- his smirk curved more, ever so slightly.

**"I was just chatting with your secretary outside. She told me."** _AHA! Take that, sonny! _The answer was so simple, that I forgot to be taken aback and simply enjoyed Sebastian's expression. However, I looked at Sherlock. _Such an easy conclusion? Since when did Sherlock do things... the easy way?  
_  
Sebastian cleared his throat uncomfortably, but a formality fell between us and I knew it was now to business. "I'm glad you could both make it over," he started. "We've had a break-in."

Standing, we followed suit and walked out of the office behind him. Well, I followed Sherlock. He led us to another room in the high building, far from his own. Just to mock my fear of heights, getting to this mystery destination comprised of taking the lift further up the goddamn building. Sebastian and Sherlock stood in front me, chatting, and didn't pay attention to me throughout the ascension.

We arrived, however, and were faced with rows and rows of cubicles, separated, and many workers were chattering anxiously on telephones, and a television screen on the wall showed a list of countries, arrows and numbers. _FTSE? Foreign exchange? Market value?_

We strode past them, and came to an office substantially bigger than Sebastian's. He unlocked the door using his security card, and we filed in. The two men immediately went to stand by the huge window, but I remained by the door. I wasn't really comfortable at such a height.

Sebastian continued his story.

"Sir William's office – the bank's former Chairman." He shuffled feet slightly, hands back in pockets."The room's been left here like a sort of memorial... but someone broke in late last night."

I felt a bit left out of the conversation, so interjected a question. "What did they steal?" Sherlock looked to the shorter man for an answer, but Sebastian couldn't definitively give one.

"Nothing. Just left a little message."

He indicated to his left. On the wall was a portrait, and to the side and across it someone has sprayed what looked like a graffiti tag in yellow paint. Sebastian walked out towards the desk and then stepped aside to allow Sherlock a clear view of the wall. Said detective clasped his hands behind his back, and leant forward, focusing on the vandalism.

I moved to stand on the other side of Sebastian, who looked at Sherlock expectantly as he still stared in fixed concentration at the graffiti.

Sherlock took some more time to take a look at it whilst Sebastian and I pondered aspects of the situation, and we eventually headed back down to Sebastian's office, me resolutely ignoring any outside views. He showed us the tape from the security camera.

"Sixty seconds apart."

He flicked back and forth between the still taken at 23:34:01 which showed the paint on the wall and on the portrait, and a minute earlier – 23:33:01 – when the wall and portrait were still clean. _Curious._

"So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute," he concluded, gazing lamely at Sherlock.

Sherlock straightened, staring into space. "How many ways into that office?"

Sebastian chuckled, which caught my attention. "Well, that's where this gets really interesting."

He looked to me, and I raised an eyebrow.

"Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet," Sebastian explained with a perplexed expression. He took a deep breath, chest swelling. "There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you – five figures."

Sherlock walked away and I quickly followed him, glancing back at Sebastian who stayed where he stood. I'd have said that he look confused, but I honestly thought he was entirely too familiar with Sherlock's mannerisms, that he simply nodded to me, and shut his office door.

I looked back to the taller man. "So what are you going to do now, Sherlock?" I asked looking out of the windows that we passed while we walked. It was truly frightening me how high we actually were. _Humans are meant to keep their feet on the ground. _Sherlock, however, obviously had no qualms.

"Obviously, I'm going to figure out from where the painter came," he said with a logical, cool voice. On the other hand, I scowled. I hated it when he thought that everything was 'obvious' when it was only 'obvious' for him. _Bloody idiot always seems to forget that not everybody was like him, sometimes._

I smiled slightly. _Arrogant prick. _

We entered the lift, and he quickly pushed some buttons. I became more and more nervous the higher we ascended. _I really don't like fucking heights_. They made me feel weak and vulnerable, and that scared me even more.

Sherlock watched me intensely as I closed my eyes, trying to forget that we were above 325 feet up in the air. Feeling my hands get slick with cold sweat, I clenched them tight, and I felt my body go rigid. I opened my eyes, feeling more in control, only to find Sherlock still gazing at me.

"You didn't tell me you are afraid of heights, Monica."

_Stop speaking, I might hurl. _"You didn't ask." I wasn't in the mood to concentrate on answering him while I was struggling with a mild form of Acrophobia.

Sherlock looked affronted by my curt response. "Hmm... Just please don't have a panic attack; I don't want to be in a lift should you do so." I gave him a dirty look.

"I won't. But I might _just_ get one, just to irritate you." I closed my eyes again and I could hear him sigh in relief.

What felt like a thousand years later, the lift indicated that we had arrived at the right floor, and I gingerly followed Sherlock out.

We returned to the office of Sir William and Sherlock started taking pictures of the graffiti with his mobile. I sat down on the chair by the desk and tried not to look at the windows. Quite difficult when you're in a room made of the bastards.

Once Sherlock had finished taking photos of the graffiti, he went to the balcony. My eyes widened when he opened the glass window and the cool wind came inside the office.

"You... aren't... going to go on the _balcony_, right?" I muttered. _Oh please don't go on the balcony..._

No use; he already was on it. I groaned- I couldn't help but stare at him, not wanting him to fall of it. He looked down at the ground that was more than 300 feet below us.

"Sherlock what are you doi-" I let a cry escape from my mouth when I saw him hanging over the railing. I had sudden visions of him overbalancing, and tumbling over. I leapt out of the chair, flung my way through the window-door and I rushed towards him, grabbing him by his coat.

Startled, he turned around to face me with a raised eyebrow and glanced at my hand that was firmly attached to his long coat. "What is your problem now?"

"You can't just go hanging of the railing from such a height!" I was panting like I had run a marathon. "You scared me!" I finally unfurled my clenched fingers from his coat.

"I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, Monica; I don't need you to worry about me."

I gazed up at him, knowing worry was etched in every feature of my face. My breathing picked up as his eyes shone into my own blue ones. He regarded me, noticing my breath had sped up.

"Are you alright?" he asked. His voice reminded me when he first saw me in my bathroom. _Worried._ Sherlock clutched my own arm, and I glanced down at it. Looking back up, his face was suddenly _very_ close to mine. I could count every one of his eyelashes.

The wind picked up and my blond hair whipped out behind me.

Sherlock's own was dancing lazily, the breeze caressing his curls. _I want to caress th-_

Shit, I'm so high up.

Once again I started to panic, and Sherlock grabbed my other arm when I swayed dangerously. His face was lined with concern, his eyebrows making an adorable furrow.  
_  
_My lips parted._  
_  
Breath created steam in the cold air and I wondered if we were breathing the same air.

_Monica! Snap out of it!_

I stuttered, but managed to speak. "Y-yes, I'm fine," I pulled away from Sherlock slightly, returning an appropriate distance between us. "Are you done now, so we can finally go downstairs?"

Concern still lurked in his green eyes, but his face looked slightly disappointed. "I think you need to sit down for a moment... You look a bit pale."

"So do you." I snarled.

He groaned. "That's just my skin colour!" I chuckled, and he smiled. But like a dog with a bone, he wouldn't give up. "I'm serious, you need to sit down for a moment. Just hold on a few minutes, I'm almost done."

"Fine, fine..." I went back inside, followed by Sherlock who had grabbed me by my shoulder to keep me straight. Apparently, he thought I was going to faint or something.

_Do I look that weak?_

I glanced at him over my shoulder. "Sherlock, you can... er... let go of me, now," I said as I was about to sit down.

He look shaken from a stupor. "Oh! Um, yes... of course."

Gathering himself together as I settled, he continued looking and twirling around in the office for unfound evidence. He even ventured outside to the area with the workers for a good few minutes, but I couldn't be bothered to find out why. After ten more minutes, he spoke up and told me we were leaving.

I sighed and stood up following him to the lift.

"So d'you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?" I asked, getting in and pressing the G button.

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks," he said as the doors closed. Suddenly, the floor dropped from beneath me as we descended. I was pretty sure my stomach was still above our heads.

To take my mind off of the nausea, I indicated that he should elaborate. "...Hmm?"

Sighing, he explained. "**The graffiti** **was a message for someone in this building**. They'll lead us to the person who sent it," he said, turning up his coat collar._Yes, darling, you look fabulous. _"So far, so obvious."

"Well, there's three hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?"

"**Pillars.**"

"Oh, pill- Wait, what?"

"Pillars and the screens. Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot."

"Does it?"

He looks at me again, interrupting his own deduction. "Are you alright again?"

I narrowed my eyes. _Why are you being so helpful? And caring?_ Bloody hell, Sherlock Holmes appeared to have been replaced overnight. The floor stopped moving- we had arrived.

"Yes, I'm fine." Looking slightly dejected, he looked at the lift door that was opening again, and we went outside. I softened a little at his expression, and added, "Thank you."

Sherlock paid me no heed- or maybe he did, and ignored it. _Yes, that must be it, because he's smiling! _He continued, "Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. **That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight."**

Exiting the building, Sherlock whipped out a card that he had found somewhere, and showed me.

"Not many **_Van Coons_** in the phonebook."

We navigated our way out the revolving bank door, and as soon as we were on street Sherlock raised his arm.

"Taxi!" he called.

* * *

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	9. The Blind Banker Part II

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**Thank you for the reviews you guys, you are awesome!**

Thank you for the idea, I already had that on my mind!

**And sorry if I don't write the whole case... I thought it would be a bit boring if I did that, so I'm just going to describe the parts where Monica is going to be a part of. (I hope you don't mind.)**

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 9: The Blind Banker Part II**

A taxi zoomed up to glide gracefully in front of Sherlock and myself.

He stepped forward and to my surprise, opened the door and indicated that I should enter first. Sherlock smiled easily at me, and clambered in after me, courteously informing the driver to which address we need to go. The exact location escaped my notice. _Still in shock that the normally self-righteous asshole beside you can be a perfect gentleman, Monica?_

I looked at the detective beside me, striking even in profile with his straight nose, full lips and amazingly bright eyes, and smiled ever so slightly. The window was open, and whilst he checked his mobile, he seemingly failed to notice that the wind was tousling his midnight hair in a carefree fashion.

Shaking myself out of my reverie, I turned to watch London fly past. After the short ride, Sherlock and I arrived at a very modern apartment tower. We climbed up the stairs to the stainless steel and glass door and to the panel with a camera, speaker and several buzzers labelled by name.

Sherlock pressed the one named "Van Coon".

No response.

I shifted to my other foot, and looked at my phone for the time. "So... what do we do now?" I gazed up at the glassy facade above me, then stared down the steps to Sherlock, who was looking determinedly at the panel. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?" I prompted, becoming impatient. The wind picked up again, and whipped my blonde tendrils across my face.

_Bloody hell it's cold. I should've changed into jeans, damn it._ I rummaged for a hair tie in my pocket and started pulling my hair into a ponytail.

Sherlock glanced in my direction before pointing triumphantly at one of the middle buzzers. "**Just moved in**," he said simply. I finished making my somewhat lacklustre ponytail. _Jesus Christ it's windy!  
_

"What?" I asked confusedly, running my hand over my hair and tried in vain to smooth it down.

"_The floor above. New label._" I looked at the label indicated- it was above "Van Coon", and was hurriedly scrawled on a piece of crummy paper- very different to the embossed card slots of the other labels.

I made a noise of comprehension, and Sherlock fully looked at me with an approving smile. However, he looked at me again, but this time stared at my hair. His eyebrows furrowed in a confused frown, and I had to stop myself from noticing that it was adorable._He looks like a child._

"Why... why did you put it in a ponytail?" He cocked his head to the side, and looked almost upset.

I shrugged. "It got too windy so I've put it in a ponytail," I said nonchalantly, and his mouth actually curved down, "Deal with it, Sherlock." I snapped.

He looked startled, but only momentarily before adopting his normal, disinterested expression. "It just... I don't know, it just looked nicer down."

_Wow, my turn to be confused._ Nonetheless, a small, shy smile stretched across my face. Sherlock seemed to notice, given that he turned a light shade of pink and returned to observe the panel. Somehow, though, I think he used it as a decoy of some sort; instead of roaming the panel for clues, his eyes were burning a hole into one spot of the metal quite adamantly.

Coughing awkwardly, I continued. "As for the label, they could have just replaced it."

Decisively, he pressed the other buzzer and looked at me with a sly grin on his face- no trace of the previous embarrassment to be seen. "No-one ever does that."

That riled me. _Oh, so Mr Sherlock Holmes knows what people do and don't do now, huh? _I snorted. _Because you're such a plethora of knowledge of normal people, ain't ya. _

Suddenly a young woman's voice rang out through the speaker, "Hello?" asked the young woman curiously. Sherlock turned to the camera with a smile on his face.

It really surprised me how well he could act. Anyone would almost think he was normal when you saw him like this. I watched his profile in fascination from my place atop the short flight of steps.

"Hi!" he positively sang, "Um, I live in the flat just below you. I-I don't think we've met...?" I rolled my eyes, but was oddly impressed.

"No, well, uh, I've just moved in."

Sherlock turns around and throws a brief 'told you so' glance at me- _alright, jammy bastard, no need to rub it in-_ then turns back to the camera. I considered throwing a couple of delightfully juicy insults in Dutch at him, but bite my tongue as he ploughed on.

"Actually," he said sheepishly, "I've _just_ locked my keys in my flat." He smiled and bit his bottom lip. _Oh God..._ And I bit my own for good measure.

Thankfully, the woman interrupted my odd daydream, "...D'you want me to buzz you in?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yeah." And without further ado, added, "And can I use your balcony?"

_What? A balcony? Bloody hell, not again!_ I glare at the detective when he turned from the panel and climbed up to join me.

"Bloody hell, Sher-"

"You'd better stay here," he interrupted, his arched eyebrows knitting together in his recurrent frown.

"I- What?"

"Wait outside, I don't want you to faint when you are on the balcony." He strode past me and went to grab for the door, just as a buzzing noise signaled its unlocking.

I whirled around, started to follow him. "Bu-"

Without looking at me, Sherlock went inside, closing the door in front of my face. It locked itself again.

_Wooooah! Well, fine. Be that way._

Scowling, I harrumphed, clutching my blazer tighter to my body. Considering that no taxis were really passing down the street- it was early evening- I cautiously sank down to perch on the hard, icy stone step.

Ten minutes passed, and I was getting impatient. I walked up to the panel and rang the "Van Coon" buzzer.

"Sherlock!" I shouted into the speaker. Thirty seconds slogged by, and no answer. _Did something happen?_

I looked up at the towering glass facade above me, and tried again. "Sherlock, are you okay?" I started to sound frantic, and even went back up the steps to knock on the door. _Bloody hell, this guy... _For hopefully the last time, I walked back to panel.

"Yeah, any time you feel like letting me in."

Still no response. _Lord, give me strength..._

...

Needless to say, we finally arrived at home around two hours later.

After persistent buzzing, Sherlock eventually let me into the flat, and I walked into the bedroom to find him collecting new evidence off the body.

Bullet wound on the right side of his head. Handgun lying on bed. Blood splatter on opposite wall.

It appeared an apparent suicide... _So why doesn't it _feel _like one?_ Biting my lip and frowning, I looked to my right. _Open window. Hmm._

At that moment, we encountered a new Detective Inspector- Dimmock, apparently. Lestrade, according to _reliable sources_, was busy. _Yeah, right sweetheart. And my natural hair colour is the exact hue of that purple lampshade over there._

Looking over at the lamp in question, I noticed the sockets just below it. _Left hand socket used. _Suddenly, it clicked. Sherlock looked at where I was staring, and smiled. I knew he had worked it out before me, and was elated to realise that I had arrived at the same conclusion a few minutes of Dimmock's prattle, I sympathised with Sherlock's sneer of distain. _This bloke's a bloody idiot. _I looked around the apartment, and I knew my suspicions were correct.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide. That would be the only explanation of all the facts."

Sherlock snorted derisively. "Wrong. It's one possible explanation of some of the facts," he said sharply, and I nearly chuckled, "You've got a solution that you like but you're choosing to ignore anything that doesn't comply with it."

Dimmock crossed his arms defensively. "Like?"

"The wound's on the right side of his head."

He laughed condescendingly. "And?"

I snapped.

"**Van Coon was left-handed**," I attempted to demonstrate how he could've shot himself in the right side of his head, with no avail. "Requires... quite a bit of contortion."

"Left-handed? Don't be stupid-"

_Jesus Christ, this one needs taking down a peg or two._ But Sherlock beat me to the punch.

"I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to do is look around this flat." He pointed over behind Dimmock and me, "Coffee table on the _left-hand side_. Coffee mug_ handle pointing to the left_."

He indicated to the television. "Power sockets, habitually _used the ones on the left_." The side table. "Pen and paper on the left hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down _messages with his left_.

"Do you want me to go on?"

I chuckled, and interrupted him; to his surprise, but evident pleasure.

"Don't worry Sherlock, we're almost at the bottom of the list."_ My turn._ I indicated into the kitchen- one I don't think Sherlock noticed. "There's a knife on the bread board with butter on the right side of the blade because he _used it with his left_."

I faced Dimmock and stared him down. Even Sherlock recoiled slightly- I wouldn't have been surprised if my eyes now blazed like ice. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. **Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him.** Only explanation of all the facts."

"But the gun. I-" Dimmock stuttered.

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened." I turned away, and looked up at Sherlock. He was beaming at me with a mixture of being impressed and pride.

And so then we returned to Baker Street- _thank God; I really need to wear plasters with these shoes_- and I collapsed heavily on the sofa, listening to Sherlock mumbling.

He walked past the dining table whilst I shucked off my blazer. Something had caught his attention. Sherlock then came to me and handed me a paper.

"Here, Monica; have a look," he said. I looked at him curiously, and he returned over to his armchair. Smoothing out the newspaper, I read:

**GHOSTLY KILLER LEAVES A MYSTERY FOR THE POLICE**

Below the headline was a photograph of a bald, overweight man. Moving to the text, I read aloud to Sherlock;

""An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night.

"Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court was found shot in his fourth floor flat but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in.

"A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in" and blah blah blah..." I trailed off, quickly skimming the remainder of the surprisingly short article.

Sherlock merely hummed, his long, elegant fingers once again steepled under his chin.

I raised an eyebrow. "The intruder who... "_can walk through walls_...?"_"_ I questioned, looking over at Sherlock sceptically.

He exhaled heavily. "Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside – exactly the same as Van Coon." His eyes were burning a hole in the opposite wall.

I looked at him in disbelief. "..._God_... You think-"

"He's killed another one." His green eyes flicked over to me, and silence fell. Whether it was a result of both of us pondering the mystery, or the sudden electricity that ran between us at that moment, was unknown. I can vouch myself, however, when I say that I definitely wasn't thinking about the case with those eyes scorching into my own.

Suddenly, we heard someone come in through the front door, and the brief connection broke. I realised that I was breathing rather heavily. Sherlock just rolled his eyes as the interruption. "John... I'd almost forgotten about him."

I stood up and walked towards the kitchen in search of a glass of water, and wandered back in, gulping it down. I was thinking about dinner, but my wages had gone on new things for the flat, and bills-_ so much more expensive here in Britain- _but as I gazed back over my shoulder into the kitchen, observing the boiling test tubes by the sink, the fridge ajar allowing a glimpse of a decapitated torso and the bowls of fingers and toes all marinated in blue copper solution on the dining table, _all surrounded _by papers and rubbish packets and empty mugs, I should have known that there wasn't going to be something edible from the start.

I sighed, and carried on going back into the living room thinking about Chinese take-away, only to result in finding an angry John shouting himself hoarse at Sherlock.

"What were you _thinking_? Just _leaving me here_?! Alone?! I thought you two were _kidnapped _or something Sherlock?!" His arms were flailing left, right and centre, and Sherlock looked bored. "You could've got Monica hurt-"

John noticed me, and his head swivelled towards me so quick, I swear I heard the bones crack.

"Monica! Oh God, sorry..." John started to say, a deep shade of red, "I didn't knew you were in our flat..." he mumbled inaudibly, wringing his hands.

"No, no, no John, you're right." I set my water down on the coffee table, and grabbed his hands. Sherlock suddenly looked up at us, with a deep frown appearing between his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry that we didn't let you know anything. It wasn't only Sherlock's fault-" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking very confused at me. His mouth was set in a frown, but the frown line I would associate with him being annoyed ironed out.

I looked down at him, still clutching John's hands, and was met with a softer, determined gaze than I experience five minutes ago.**_Not used to being defended_**.

Smiling abashedly, I looked into John's blue eyes, such a different shade from my own. "But John, we were gone for like... four, five hours? What have you been doing for so long?" I asked curiously.

John turned a more attractively shade of pink, but in a proud, happy way. "I went to Sarah's; I was lucky that she was in."

Sherlock chuckled. "I bet it wasn't that bad then; that we were gone," he grumbled jovially, still with a smile on his face.

At the implication, John's cheeks then turned ruddier, and I dropped his hands to sip from my glass again. He abruptly changed the subject. "So where have you two been for so long?"

"There have been two new murders." Sherlock said simply.

John looked surprised. "A serial killer?"

"Possibly." Sherlock got up, fastening the button of his jacket. "Now, if you would excuse me- I have to go somewhere."

"Do you want us to come with you?" John asked before I could.

"No, I'll be fine, thank you." He grabbed his coat, and left, fixing his customary blue scarf around his neck.

John and I looked at each other, both bemused. I walked over to the window, and watched Sherlock leave the flat and observed that suspiciously, he didn't hail a cab. Instead, he strode down Baker Street out of view.

I hummed slightly, and checked my phone. _Jesus Christ, it's only ten o'clock and I'm exhausted! _Turning to John settling into his armchair with the paper, I barely stifled a yawn as I said, "Well, I guess I'm going back to my place then. Bloody long day..." I waved at him, walking towards the door.

"Thank you Monica," John said softly. So softly I almost missed it.

I turned around and looked at John. "For... what?"

"For going with him," he smiled lazily.

"Oh... that..." I smiled at him, "it was no problem, John."

John nodded, and turned back to his paper. I wouldn't be surprised if he was going to get a beer within the next five minutes. Sure enough, as I gathered my things and headed downstairs from 221B, I heard his footsteps above my head go to the kitchen, and open the fridge. The habitual strangled yelp of disgust came, followed by mumbled swearing, and the hiss of a can being opened. I chuckled as I got my keys out for 221C.

I thought back to what John had said not thirty seconds early, and smiled to myself.

_No problem at all, John. _

* * *

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	10. The Blind Banker Part III

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**Wow come on guys almost 100 reviews! Thank you so much I (and Anna of course) love you so much! I hope you enjoy this chapter and sorry that you'll have to wait till next time for the actual ending of the case! Enjoy!**

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 10: The Blind Banker Part III**

I kicked off my heels, and threw my bag, files and coat into my bedroom, grabbing the phone from the kitchen. Sitting down on my sofa, I dialled the takeaway that I had on speed-dial. _How sad, Monica. _

Flicking on the television, I absent-mindedly channel-hopped as I gave my order- _surely 10pm is_ _not too late to eat, right?- _and settled down thereafter to wait the required thirty minutes before dinner would arrive toute suite on my doorstep.

Sighing with contentment, I relaxed and looked forward to a free weekend without work, Lestrade, or aching feet. Suddenly I had this feeling for drawing again. _Hmm. Thirty minutes should be enough time to get the feeling out of my system. _Reaching down under the sofa, I scrambled around for my sketchpad and graphite pencils.

Getting up gingerly, considering that my entire body ached, I strolled over to the window ledge, wide enough for me to sit up there with my feet up. Grabbing a cushion, I considered what I wanted to get down on paper.

I sharpened my pencil and open up my pad onto a clean sheet of paper, wondering. _I know! _I had spent a whole day with Sherlock, so I had memorized him quite well.

_Isn't it a bit odd to just start drawing your neighbour? _

I shook my head and began the curve of his cheekbone. I'd just have to make sure he'd never, ever, _ever _see this. _Sure, Monica, wouldn't want him to get the impression you're crazy about him. _Which I wasn't. Obviously. The bloke's a lunatic... but had a hell of a face. That hair, the deep cupid's bow and those deep, calculating eyes. Eyes you could fall into and drown in whatever they held. A silver and green sea of intellect and cold, but I still believed that they held more than what appeared.

Tracing lightly the outline of his chiseled cheeks and delectable jawline, I started with the quick basic planes of his features. Soon, within minutes, one could start to recognise a face that was actually recognisable as the detective. Over time, since the first sketch of him, I had mastered his details.

A quarter of an hour passed and my Sherlock was looking pretty good already. _Would be better if Sherlock would _like_ your drawings more, Monica. _I sighed. He had seen me drawing multiple times over the fortnight, and every single time the idiot had something to say about them.

It made me sad that he couldn't say anything nice. Instead there were always comments about anatomy- along the lines of "I'm sure that bone isn't quite there on the human face," said with a patronising frown.

He had said that whilst I drew my father, and I was pretty sure that my representation was accurate. I scoffed, but the comment was rather a pain in my heart... more than just a digging remark on my drawing ability.

The first time he had said something of that nature, I hadn't spoken to him for the rest of the day. _Yes, I'm sure that was a _real_hardship on his part. _He always had something to whine about when it came to my sketchpad. So that's why I don't draw anymore whilst he is in the vicinity, or when there is a chance he will interrupt.

Without realising, my hands had captured the shadows of his face, and the curls of his dark, soft hair. Cocking my head to the side, I realised it needed colour. I grabbed some pencils from my desk nearby, and started to bring hue to the creation.

I made his eyes the brightest shade of green that I could find, and etched in the gorgeous silver sheen that flecked in them. His lips became a soft pink and with a more red shade in the corners, that picked up slightly when the mood was upon him. Slowly, I was getting lost in this mercurial man's wonderful face.

I was blissfully snapped out of my thoughts when the doorbell rang. I put down the drawing and pencils, and let out a shaky breath I didn't realise I had withheld. Opening my door, I went to the front door of 221 Baker Street, letting in the delivery boy momentarily from the cold.

The man that entered was not older than 30 with short black hair and a round- _kinda cute, Mon!-_ face.

I smiled at him, and floundered my hands slightly, "Thank you! Just let me grab my money- come in please while you wait..." I trailed off, indicating for the tall, adorable guy that stood sheepishly before me to follow to my door. He smiled nervously in return. "Just give me a minute whilst I get my purse- are you okay to wait?"

"Yes, miss! This is my last order of my shift, so I'm fine for the moment." I noticed a slight Irish intonation and grinned. I'd always loved the Irish accent. This one in particular reeked of Dublin, and it was musical.

Jogging to the bedroom to get some money from my bag, I came back to find the guy stood in my living room looking at my drawing.

"Is that...?" He started.

"Sherlock Holmes," I answered, blushing slightly, "well, it's _supposed_ to be him... I know it probably doesn't look like him-"

He started to stutter adorably, interrupting. "No, no! It looks good!" He looked at it again, blushing himself. "Very good; you are talented." He smiled up me again, eyebrows furrowed.

"Really?" I said incredulously. "Well, he certainly doesn't think that." His eyes widened.

"You _know_ Sherlock Holmes?!" he seemed light up like a child, takeaway bags still clutched in his arms, he skipped towards me. I fought the impulse to giggle.

"Is that special?" _Bloody hell, Monica; ain't you lucky to know the most insufferable, rude prick in all of London? Who knew?! _ "I didn't even know that Sherlock was so well-known, as it were..."

The delivery guy nearly shouted, "You've got to be kidding me! He is my _hero_! God, I love his site! Never off it! _"Science of Deduction"_. Read it every week." His smile disappeared, and his playful gaze faltered as he became serious. "You aren't going to tell me he lives upstairs, right?"

I laughed a bit, playing with the money in my hand. Slowly, I was getting irritated with this childish, cute man before me. I just wanted my bloody food- I was ravenous.

"Yes, he does." Seeing his face, I quickly added, "but he's not at home at the moment... sorry, you have me at a disadvantage...?" I looked pointedly at his shirt, searching for a name tag. He didn't appear to have one.

"Sorry, sweetheart! Jim Mory- pleasure to meet you," he smiled happily, back to his playful self.

_Aw, Monica, give him a chance! He _is_ kind of cute- _No. I want food. Now.

"Yes, excuse me Jim, but I _am_ hungry. So... if you wouldn't mind..." I trailed off, holding out a twenty.

His face got a disappointed look. "Oh... yes, sorry ma'am... Enjoy your meal, ma'am..." He handed me the bag and pulled out a fiver change.

He turned to leave, when something snapped inside me. _He seems... lonely. And I know how that feels. _"No wait," I said a bit louder than planned, "You can... join me... if you would like. I mean, I've nothing to do so..."

He turned back to face me, and I swear I saw little sparkles in his eyes. "You wouldn't mind?"

_How can you say no to such a sweetheart? _"No of course not," I said, earnestly, "Please sit down and I'll grab us some plates and some drink."

"Thank you so much!" He looked down at his hands, cheeks red again as he mumbled, "You can have the meal for free... if you would like. I'll... I'll pay my boss for it." He looked up at me shyly, and I grinned.

_Free meal?_ Not so bad for inviting him after all. _Bit like a date, though, Monica eh? _Oh, shut up.

"Lemonade? I'm guessing you have to drive."

He smiled, bolder. "Yes ma'am." And he followed me out to the kitchen, eager to help. He opened up the packets, and popped a cracker into his mouth.

"Call me Monica please," I told him, as I opened the bottle and poured a good amount into two glasses. "None of this 'ma'am' business you've got going on, Jim." I handed him two plates as I helped him open up the rice, helping myself to a prawn cracker too. "Monica Smith."

He smiled again, sweet and lovely. "What a lovely name, Monica"

...

Conservation flowed so easily; Jim and I had talked that evening about many things.

We told each other a few things about ourselves He asked me about Belgium, how we do things there, our culture, what my house looked like, if I had a family. I inquired after Ireland, his hobbies, his job, what he wanted to do in the future.

Then the questions turned like deep, and soon we were swapping favourite colours and debating the advantages of Robert Downey Jr's Iron Man vs. Chris Evans' Captain America. The television prattled in the background unheeded and unnoticed as our laughter filled the flat.

I did ask him a few things about his past but he mostly just waved them away._ Probably just because it's painful, or he doesn't wanna talk about himself... _It was apparent halfway through that this was becoming more and more like a date... his hand touched mine on a couple of occasions accidentally, but whilst we both blushed, I don't think either of us had any aversions to the contrary.

Sadly, the evening went quickly and by the time that Jim and I had swapped numbers, kissed my cheek and left, I was exhausted. Leaving the dishes for tomorrow, I went to bed. Having chased around half of London today, I was slipped off to sleep quite easily.

My thoughts however were more of the delivery boy, and less of the detective that irked me.

...

Panicking momentarily that I had overslept, I settled back into my pillows in the relief that I didn't have to work for another two days. _Thank god, your mentality wouldn't cope otherwise, Monica. _Can't argue there.

Heaving my stiff body out of bed, I stretched quickly and efficiently with positions way back when I started training, and then hopped in the shower. I put on some sloppy clothes, before remembering that I was to go to dinner with John today. _Bloody hell, what in God's name can I wear?! _

I shut my wardrobe door with an immature strop, and braved the messy living room. Within five minutes the packages were in the bin, the plates and glasses in the dishwasher, and I was wiping down the surfaces whilst the kettle boiled. I checked my phone, thinking back to last night, but had no messages.

I made some toast and coffee, and looked at my unfinished drawing. It_ did_ look like him, surely. I picked up a pencil, toast in the other hand precariously. _Maybe if I just-_

The doorbell rang and putting my toast back on the plate and tucking the pencil behind my ear, I went to the door to take a look at who it could be. Peering through the peephole, I was surprised to see Jim here.

Eyebrows furrowed, I let him into 221's hallway and closed the door. "Jim what are you doing here?" I asked, curious.

Jim shuffled his feet, his hands dug deep into his pockets. In non-uniform-esque attire, he dressed really well. Black jeans, blazer and a white round neck t-shirt. _Yum. _"I forgot to pay you back for dinner! I had promised you would get it free..." he smiled a bit.

I laughed, "Oh no, Jim, you don't have to do that! I enjoyed it," I yawned slightly, "maybe next time we can go somewhere and you can pay then instead?" I said brushing my hands through my wet, tangly blonde hair.

To my surprise, his face turned bright red. "Would- would you _like_ me to take you somewhere... 'next' time?" His eyes were wide and slightly hopeful, and my heart gave a flutter. He stepped closer, and my body tensed in a not altogether too unwelcome way. I smiled happily, and opened my mouth to answer as his face got near enough to mine for me to count his eyelashes.

Before I could get any response out, or before indeed anything occurred, the front door swung opened once again and Sherlock Holmes swept inside, not noticing me and Jim at first as he stormed past us on his way up the stairs.

He had already whipped off his scarf when he turned back, and gazed at us two so close together. His face twisted into a frown.

"Who's this?" he demanded, pointing a finger at Jim like it was a new piece of furniture. Jim jumped back from me, his eyes widened and looking like he was about to scream.

I coughed slightly. "This, Sherlock, is Jim. He stayed with me for dinner yesterday." Sherlock positively scowled at me at the end of my sentence.

"Jim Mory," cried Jim, as he practically hopped up and down on the spot, "pleasure to meet you!" He took a deep breath. "Oh god, it's really you! The great Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow condescendingly and unbuttoned his long, black coat.

"I see. Well, I'll be upstairs." Sherlock dramatically spun around on the step and ran up the stairs, disappearing into his flat.

I looked up at Jim hesitantly, and saw that if he were the puppy he so closely resembles, his ears would've drooped. Sure enough, he looked forlorn. "Oh..." he said so heartwrenchingly. _Couldn't Sherlock see he had a fan?_

He shuffled dejectedly. "Well, I have to go..." he mumbled quietly.

My heart sank. "Bye, Jim, it was nice seeing you again! Call me when you are up for doing something next week!" He looked at me completely melancholy. I cupped his face, and to his evident surprise, I kissed him softly on the cheek. He touched it, his face stunned and slowly glowing pink.

Stuttering goodbye, he left the flat in a somewhat sadder mood than he had come in- I could tell- but I hoped that he knew I was trying to make him feel better.

Furious, I followed Sherlock upstairs and opened their flat door. I looked around and saw John sitting on their sofa with a newspaper.

"Where is Sherlock?" I asked tersely.

John looked at me and smiled.

"Hey Monica! He just arrived... in his room I think. You're welcome to go to him and-"

I shook my head sharply. "I'm fine to wait," and I sat down in the dining chair in front of him and glared at my hands, shaking in anger. After a few minutes of waiting, Sherlock came back inside the living room and raised an eyebrow at me.

"I thought you were talking to your friend a moment ago?"

"I was, yeah," I bit out sarcastically. "Funnily enough, he left a bit sad... can't think why," my voice shook. "Couldn't be anything to do with the fact that you couldn't give him the time of day when all he wanted to do is tell you he admired you?" I stood up, my fists clenching repeatedly. "You really are an intolerable prick, Sherlock Holmes."

Starting to leave through the kitchen, Sherlock's face contorted confusedly. "Well... I did say that I was going upstairs..." he trailed off, his voice small. A small flicker of sympathy tugged at me but my anger smothered it as I flew around to face him again.

Opening my mouth foolishly to retaliate, I instead controlled myself, and rolled my eyes. Deciding to ignore the detective, I directed my next question to John, who was sat opened mouthed on the sofa still, newspaper forgotten in his lap.

"John, do you want to come with me this evening?"

Sherlock interrupted. "John's coming with me to-"

"No, Sherlock," John sighed angrily, "I have already said five times that I _am_ going with Monica to dinner tonight." Sherlock gazed at him dumbfounded.

I looked at the pair of them staring at each other. However, Sherlock seemed to shake himself out of his reverie. "That's a bit dull, isn't it?" He grabbed a couple of tickets out of his trouser pocket. "Why don't you two try this?"

He showed John the tickets and I just stared at them. I could see the artwork on the tickets- it was advertising the 'Yellow Dragon Circus', apparently.

"In London for one night only."

John chuckled and gave Sherlock back the tickets. Getting up, he said, "No, thank you, Sherlock; I think we're just fine with what we were going to do."

_To be fair, it does sound oddly fun... _"Oh John, for one night only," I cried. "Come on! It looks interesting!" He turned to me, saw my face and laughed.

"Alright! Fine!" he finished laughing, and faltered slightly, "But I don't _really_... have the money for that... I think..."

_Well, in that case... _I opened my mouth to tell John that we could forgo these new plans, Sherlock butted in again, "Don't worry about that, I'll pay for you two."

"You're not coming with us." I stated, just to clarify. He looked at me with a small, sad expression that was wiped away as quickly as it appeared.

"No, I'll just pay for the tickets. I have... other things to do." He wrung his hands slightly, and then just left again the room again. Staring after him, I heard John carry on to the kitchen, cups clinking in the sink.

"Still on that case then," John murmured, more to himself than me.

_Hmm._

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	11. The Blind Banker Part IV

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**100 reviews! I love you all! Before you start to read this chapter I just want to say sorry for not updating more quickly. I was on holiday and was promised to get better wifi while there was barely wifi. -stupid camping- But hey, look how long this chapter is! And staying in France gave me an idea for a later chapter, so yay! Also I feel like I should give credit to Ariane Devere on LiveJournal for the script of this 'episode'. It was really useful! Enjoy!**

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 11: The Blind Banker Part IV**

'Here we are then," John said as came up the designated building. I had my arm linked through his own, and we'd been amicably chatting about nothing in particular whilst walking through London to Soho, and to the venue. The night had a cool, crisp air to it, and John wore a blue and white striped shirt, with a brown corduroy jacket thrown over the top- extremely different from his customary jumper and jeans. Truth be told, John did look rather dapper.

_I bet Sherlock could wear it better though_. Oh, shut up.

It was half past eight in the evening by the time we arrived at the Yellow Dragon Circus; plenty of time for the nine o'clock start of the event. I shrugged my coat from my shoulders and handed it to the cloakroom attendant, revealing the black silk pencil skirt I was sporting, matched with a white sheer blouse, seamed tights and some charcoal, chic suede pumps. My black blazer was slung around my shoulders.

John wolf-whistled light-heartedly, given that he had already complimented me as I exited my flat earlier that evening. Mrs Hudson had gushed over how 'beautiful' I had looked. John complimented my outfit with a nervous cough, clearing his throat and unbuttoning his shirt collar. Sherlock, on the other hand, was engrossed in his mobile phone- not that I had expected much else. The most surprising moment was when John and I were about to leave; Sherlock managed to tear his gaze away from his phone for all of ten seconds.

"Monica?" he began, causing me to turn around to him.

When no continuation of conversation was forthcoming, I prompted, "Hmm?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Y-you've parted your hair... differently. It was more central before."

I plucked at the strand of light blond hair curling around the back of my ear. "Um... yeah, I just thought it'd look nice... for this evening, you know..." I trailed, uncertain, and looked down at my hands, unsure of what Sherlock would say.

If possible, he surprised me. "It- it looks better that way. Very nice," he croaked, voice barely above a whisper. He then turned around abruptly and sprinted up the stairs to 221B, slamming the door and leaving the three of us downstairs with pretty shocked expressions.

John spoke, knocking me out of my reverie of that event, and I was brought back to the street we were walking along. "This is it I think, Mon."

We went to the counter where a man was taking the booked tickets. John strode up confidently to the boy, barely older than twenty, with a charismatic smile; rare to see in John these days, but nonetheless genuine. I hugged myself, considering my good fortune in my friends.

"Hi. I have, er... two tickets reserved for tonight." John began, reaching into his back jean pocket for his wallet.

"And what's the name, please sir?" I looked at John.

"Er, Holmes," John answered, waiting as the concierge looked through the reservations and turned to us again, holding an envelope.

"Actually, sir, I have three in that name."

I raised my eyebrow. _Did that bastard actually..._

"I don't think so," John shifted, his face set in a frown. He looked as confused as I was. "We... only booked two-"

A deep, velvet voice interrupted him. "And then I phoned back and got one for myself as well." I sighed, my head falling to look at the floor. _That fucking prick._

...

Whilst John went off to the toilets, Sherlock and I were sitting at a table for a moment. His knees were jittering up and down, his eyes darting animatedly and his hands clapping together slightly as he hunched forward.

_One day, I swear to God, I'm gonna kill this son of a bitch._ I growled in frustration, muttering mutinously under my breath in Dutch for a good few minutes. I was so angry, and finally, I burst out in indignation, "You couldn't stay at home just _one time_?!"

"Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day. It fits. The tattoos," _What tattoos?!_ "Fit the description... Black Lotus Tong... that's what Yao said... said they sent an assassin to England..." he rambled off, hands waving and he stood to pace beside me. _Ignoring me. The asshole's_ completely _ignoring me._

He continued, with no sign of stopping. "We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can climb up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity?" He was manic now, coat whirling around him as he pretty much skipped in circles, alive with as much electricity as a live wire. "Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Smuggling.**They're smugglers**." Sherlock stopped suddenly, twisting round abruptly to face me. His eyes raked my form without actually seeing. "Now, all I need to do is have a quick look round the place-"

"Yes, yes _you_ do_ that_," I began as I gathered up my ticket and my envelope bag, "_I'm_ going to _have dinner_ with John."

I started to walk away, passing Sherlock. "Now, if you will excuse-"

A hand grabbed my wrist suddenly, and I whirled around, other arm raised ready to smack the offender in the face, only to find myself a mere couple of inches from Sherlock. He was bent to my level, and his eyes were suddenly desperate. "I need your help," he said lowly. It sounded like a beg, I realised, as I stared into the eyes that were wonderfully swimming with silver and green; even some blue like mine. "Monica, I... _need_... y-you."

I swallowed. _Bloody hell. What the heck do I do now?!_

Flexing my hand slightly, Sherlock baulked slightly, remembering his vice grip upon my wrist, and let go. I ran my fingers through my now-tousled hair, and only just stopped myself from rubbing my made-up face. "Sherlock, can't you see that I'm trying to have fun tonight instead of running after you?"

Immediately, I knew this would not go down well. Sure enough, an incredibly quick expression of hurt appeared on his sculptured face, his eyebrows frowning, his frown making his Cupid's Bow even more prominent, and he looked at me with those pathetically gorgeous eyes. I could feel my resolve crumbling in those few microseconds.

Luckily John came back, just as it was wiped off his face. I frowned.

John opened his mouth to berate Sherlock, his kind eyes suddenly dark, hard and flat. His arms were folded defensively in a defensive stance, and I braced myself for the onslaught. I looked at John, when he smiled suddenly, looking other Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock glanced at me, as he turned to face John's line of sight.

"S-Sarah?" John got out, raising his eyebrows.

A woman came running up to him. Short dirty blonde hair flying, hazel eyes shining, the woman was a little taller than John and dressed a bit cheaper than I would've guessed, considering she was a doctor at John's surgery. Out the corner of my eye I could see that Sherlock was glaring at her, probably deducing. I sighed, and looked her, flinging her arms around John. The woman was beautiful.

_By God, didn't John see how much luck he has with women?!_

She was laughing, their arms wrapped around each other and slowly rocking from side to side. "John!"

John laughed as he squeezed her, and they finally broke apart. Sarah clocked Sherlock and I, before turning back to the shorter man before her. "Oh, please come join me, John- it'd be like a double date!" She clapped her hands excitedly. "My friend Rebecca left me here alone..."

John's eyebrows knitted together. "...Well... it shouldn't be a problem, Sarah..." He turned to look at me with a _I'm sorry can she please stay _face. I looked at her, smiled, and nodded slightly. Sherlock glared at me, scandalised. I shifted uncomfortably, choosing instead to look at my mobile for the time. _Five minutes 'til start._

I started to inform John that we should get going in, and was struck dumb by the expression he was sporting. He was so happy to see her, and... Well, you could almost see that they were perfect for each other.

"John, we'd better get going," I said, finally, and John looked at his watch.

"Shit! Yeah, let's go." He offered his arm to Sarah, and they walked up the stairs, leaning into each other. I smiled.

Then it hit me.

Double date.

_Oh no._

_No._

_No._

_No._

Sarah turned to look down at where I'd stopped, and Sherlock was behind me. "Oh, c'mon you two lovebirds, we'll miss it at this rate!"

"He's not my date!" I pointed at Sherlock unceremoniously, and John giggled.

Sarah made a noticeable gasp. "Oh, God, sorry!" She looked at John for help, but all he did was stifle giggles behind his hand. I glared at him. "Well...as friends?"

I gazed down at Sherlock, whose mouth curved in a downwards direction. _Wait... He wasn't_ really _hurt by what I said right?_ No matter, because a second later, his face once again changed back into the cold, normal Sherlock so quick, I was left wondering if I had imagined it. He clambered up the stairs, barely acknowledging me as he stalked past.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Let's go upstairs."

...

We entered an area with a small stage and a large hall, laid out before a pair of some big, red velvet stage curtains, which were closed. From the fact that the props were in the middle of the hall, the stage looked like it wouldn't be used during the performance. The room was lit with candles and the golden light didn't quite reach all the corners of the dark hall. I gazed up into the inky darkness of the high ceiling.

We strolled over to the group of people gathering around the performance space. Sarah leans into John, and he wrapped a hand around her waist.

_Smooth. God, Monica, you need to get yourself a man._ At that moment, my mobile vibrated in my clutch with a text message. I felt Sherlock move behind me as I fished for it. Unlocking it, I opened the text, quickly reading as a hush fell over the audience.

_**Dinner sometime this week still on? Jim x**_

I smiled brightly, but ignored it for the moment- not knowing when I was next free in the evening, I made a mental note to look at my diary.

Gazing around the props, my mood darkened. I looked at Sherlock. "You said circus. This is not a circus." I pinched the bridge of my nose in exasperation. "Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is art-"

Sherlock whispered quietly, "This is not their day job." I jumped, not realising how close he was to me. His breath tickled my neck and right ear. I shivered, not from the cold. From this close, I could smell the linger of soap on his skin and the vague scent of coffee on his breath. Making a conscious effort not to breathe heavily, I replied as scathingly patronising as I felt.

"Oh no, sorry, I forgot. They're not a circus; they're a gang of... what did you say? International smugglers?" I rolled my eyes. "Just bloody watch it, will you?"

He started a little at my last condescending 'guess', but otherwise ignored me, but didn't move from where he was. If I stepped back a mere few centimetres, my back would be flush against his chest. The thought made my mouth go dry, and I struggled to keep my concentration on the performance, just about to begin, rather than my raging blood pressure. _Jesus Christ, Monica! Get a grip._

The performance started with someone tapping out a rhythm on a tiny hand drum.

Sherlock turned to face the origin of the sound, and John looked over his shoulder at him. I saw Sherlock catch his eye, and he raised an eyebrow at him. Slowly, an ornately costumed Chinese woman with a heavily painted face– "She's traditionally known as the Opera Singer," Sherlock whispered again in my ear– walked into the centre of the circle and loomed imperiously out at the audience before raising a hand in the air.

The drummer abruptly cut off his riff. The 'Opera Singer' glided across the circle to a large object, covered with a cloth which she now whipped off to reveal an antique-looking crossbow on a stand.

In the stack behind her, she picked up a long thick wooden arrow, adorned with white feathers at one end and a vicious metal point at the other. Before fitting it into place in the crossbow, she showed it to the audience

Straightening up, she plucked a single, small, white, downy feather from her headdress and again held it up to the audience. On the rear of the crossbow was a small, shallow, metal cup and she gently dropped the feather onto it.

Instantly, the arrow was released and whizzed across the room. My and Sherlock's heads whipped around to follow its flight, whilst John and Sarah were still gasping at the sound of the arrow's release, clutching each other in nervous silence.

By the time they looked round a moment later, the arrow was embedded in a large painted board on the other side of the circle. Sarah turned to John and laughed, dramatically putting her hand over her heart.

I just stood there amazed. _This must have cost years of training... Are they gonna put a bloke on the target board?_

Sure enough, the audience applauded as a new character entered the circle, wearing chainmail and an ornate head mask. Buckles clanking, he held his arms out to the sides as two men come over and started to fasten the straps to the buckles, trapping his now-folded arms in front of him in the shape of a straitjacket. Backing him up against the board, the two aides were now beginning to chain him to it.

John and Sarah were apparently more enjoying each other more than the show, so Sherlock leant into me again, "Classic Chinese escapology act."

I tore my gaze away, and turned to look up into his striking eyes, glittering with amusement. "Hmm?"

He chuckled, "The crossbow's on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires."

Feeling my mouth fall open, I returned back to see the 'Opera Singer' load another arrow into the crossbow. The men attached more padlocks and chains and one of them pulled a chain tight, yanking the warrior's head back against the board. The warrior cried out, and I jumped. The men looped the chains through solid rings, attached to the board and secured the warrior, who yelled out again.

Once they finished, they stepped away. The music began building in intensity once again and cymbals crashed unexpectedly. Sarah jumped, clutching at John's arm, and letting out a squeal.

Sherlock sighed behind me in derision; I had to admit that she was getting slightly annoying by now. On the other hand, whilst I had no particular need for clutching an arm at this moment, I felt pretty alone. _Not to mention abandoned by John I-Might-Get-Lucky Watson_.

Seething silently, Sherlock gently laid a hand on my shoulder, and softly whispered in my ear, "She splits the sandbag; the sand pours out; gradually the weight lowers into the bowl." I almost leaned into him- his breath across my ear and cheek gave me goosebumps under my blazer.

The Opera Singer did just what Sherlock had predicted – she reached up to a small sandbag hanging on a long cable and stabbed the knife into the bottom of the sack.

Sand began to pour out, and to my nervous chagrin, the warrior repeatedly roared out with effort as he tugged at his constraints. The sandbag's cable was looped over a pulley and a metal ball was attached to the other end.

My hands flew up to mouth as I fully understood how the trick was going to play out. As the sand continued to pour out of the bag the weight lowered towards the bowl at the back of the crossbow. The warrior got one hand free. In my peripheral vision, John was watching the weight lower, and Sarah now looked nervously at it as it crossed paths with the sandbag on its way up. They turned to look at the warrior as he eventually struggled his other hand free and started tugging at the chains around his neck. _Oh... my God._

The weight was now only a few feet above the bowl, and falling fast. Sarah clings tightly to John's arm, grimacing and shoulders hunched. Bellowing out again, the warrior pulled at his chains and the weight got ever closer to the dish. As it almost reached the lip of the bowl, merely a hair's breadth away, the warrior loosened the chains around his neck and struggled to free himself completely.

I sucked in a shaky breath... I reminded me too much of previous assignments I'd had with Staatsveiligheid, when I'd been bound or at gunpoint... I shivered. _If _that _was too close to death for me, then if I were that warrior bloke I'd be paralysed._

I braced myself, ready for the worst to happen.

Sherlock shifted beside me, and I felt a cool embrace on my hand clench at my side. My eyes widened as I looked down, and realised Sherlock's own hand was tentatively curling around mine. I glanced up at Sherlock, as the noises of the warrior and the drums fell away, because he was staring down at me, mouth set in a straight line and eyebrows knitting together in worry. I laced my fingers through his, nervously. His breath huffed out almost imperceptibly, and I realised that he'd been anxious about how I'd react. I smiled, and the corners of his mouth twitched.

I looked back at the scene, and was acutely aware that the warrior still wasn't free. The weight touched the bowl, just as my clench on Sherlock's tightened tenfold and the arrow streaked across the room. With a split second to spare, the warrior freed himself of the chains, ducked down and the arrow thudded into the board, barely clearing his head.

The warrior yelled out triumphantly as the audience began to applaud. I unfroze my hand from ultimately cutting off his circulation as Sarah gasped in relief.

_Okay, I understand that the girl can't stand too much angst but she was really getting on my nerves now._

"Thank god!" Sarah and John said in unison. Sherlock and I raised an eyebrow almost as simultaneously. I chuckled and Sherlock snorted delicately in disdain.

John noticed and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and me, winding a protective arm around Sarah's waist. _Woah, darlin'; we're not the ones who decided to hook up with an incredibly annoying bimbo._

The warrior stood up and took in the applause with a bow, as we all cheered for his triumph. When I looked back around, expecting to see Sherlock clapping with me and prepared to dismiss the whole hand-holding incident, he had gone.

I glanced around the hall, looking for a dark haired, dark cloaked man. To no avail.

_Where the blazes was he now?!_

Minutes passed as the 'Opera Singer' introduced the next act. It was something about a Chinese 'Spider' or something. I forgot about Sherlock momentarily as another 'warrior' was flying around above our heads, propelled by two strips of red voile that draped down from the ceiling.

Suddenly two people fell from the stage in front of us, struggling with each other. I heard a gentleman muttering behind me about 'bloody idiots, fighting backstage... bloody unprofessional..."

_Oh God, please don't tell me that that's our idiot..._

One of the men who tumbled to the floor straightened, and I recognised the black, curly hair. C'mon Monica, you could recognise that head at five hundred yards.

The other offender- whom I recognised as the warrior from earlier- grabbed Sherlock by the throat but dropped his knife in the process of Sherlock's struggling.

_Yep. That's our idiot._

John looked back at me in bewilderment, and I nodded at him. We leapt forward- John ran and dove to the ground, grasping the knife the warrior dropped. The only thing I could think of was to hitch up my skirt, and unholstered my Browning pistol from my thigh, and aimed it at Sherlock. His eyes widened in fear, until I shifted my aim to over his shoulder, where the warrior's face appeared beside him.

John crept around the back of them, knife raised. His fingers were holding the end of the blade, and he had his arm raised, ready to fling it if he needed. Instead, John shouted out across the hall.

"Everyone get out!" The warrior flung Sherlock and himself to face John, before turning back to keep me in his vision. He stalked back, almost dragging Sherlock with him, who was strangely complying. They backed up until they were almost flush against the wall of the hall, and I was hyper alert, aware that as I kept my gun trained on the warrior, the thundering of the fleeing audience was dying away. John and I were on our own.

Sherlock yelled out, "Don't shoot him! We need him alive!" before the warrior constricted his windpipe yet again and his breath was cut off.

I looked at Sherlock, trying to communicate with my gaze. His eyes narrowed as they bore into me, whilst the warrior was preoccupied with John's movements. Sherlock glanced at the ground. Shoot it, they said.

I nodded, and fired a bullet promptly into the parquet floor.

In the distraction, Sherlock lashed the warrior's hand away from his neck, and drove his free elbow in his attacker's face. The mask cracked and crumbled from his face, and Sherlock drove his other hand into a punch in the warrior's stomach.

I fished in my blazer pocket, and my hand closed on a can. Pulling out, I read _Pepper Spray._

"Sherlock!" I screamed, and hurled it towards his form, which caught it miraculously without looking, before he sprayed it directly into his eyes. The warrior howled, hunching over and clutching his face. John ran towards them, and shoved the warrior with such momentum and force that the latter fell, and skidded a good five metres from them. I simply kept my pistol trained on him.

In one fluid motion, the warrior used his momentum in the fall to raise his legs, roll onto his back, and flip forward to his feet again._Bloody hell._

He whipped out a set of daggers, and as John and Sherlock fled up the steps of the stage to get behind the curtain, the warrior flung out two, and I ducked and rolled on the floor as they flew above my head. The warrior, during my distraction, sprinted up after the two boys. I fired my gun, narrowing missing his flying form. He dived behind the curtain the few metres above me.

My chamber clicked empty, and I hurriedly reloaded with a spare ammo magazine again from my thigh holster. Clicking the Browning off safety and re-aiming, I heard a strangled yelp, and leapt backwards as Sherlock was propelled backwards from the curtain, straight over the edge of the stage and crashing onto his back on the floor a few feet below.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you alright?!" I yelled, getting a groan in reply. He struggled to get upright again, but was too winded and couldn't move. As the warrior came flying out of the curtains, searching for Sherlock lying below him, I sprinted forward, arriving at Sherlock, and I dragged him back behind me. Staring down the warrior, Sherlock tried to grab at me to push me away, but I pushed him away as I stood protectively in front of him.

The warrior loomed down at us. "Monica, move..." Sherlock gasped out. "Please, move!"

Not moving, I straightaway spied John on the move, silently running towards the warrior as he raised a knife and prepared to plunge it downwards. John charged straight into him, colliding with his back and propelling them to the edge of the stage but the warrior grabbed John, and sent him over the stage also, and he landed on his feet, stumbling to his hands and knees.

I had had enough of watching, and prepared to shoot the warrior- be damned with Sherlock's 'don't shoot the suspect'.

"John!" came a woman's sudden shriek. I looked behind the warrior and saw Sarah brandishing a broom, running out from behind the stage curtain. _Yeah, fat lot of help that broom's gonna be, lady. _ Before the warrior could react, Sarah collided the broom with the back of his head with a sickening thud. _Hmmm. Surprising._

The warrior fell forward off the stage, and fell to the floor in front of me. He clutched at his head, and struggled to his knees. Sarah hopped down haphazardly off the stage to run after John to help him, whilst I reached behind me to Sherlock, who was still curled up on the floor, albeit breathing less problematically. His hand touched mine briefly, and gaze mine a quick squeeze of reassurance.

I heard a groan, and saw the warrior rising unsteadily to his feet. I shoved my Browning at Sherlock, who looked horrified at being handed such a weapon. I ran at the warrior, and with a yell pivoted on my left foot, and clipped his temple with my right. He cried out in pain and sank back to one knee, and before he could let out another gasp I delivered a right under-hook below his jaw, sending him backwards on the floor with a final thud.

As I panted a bit, clutching my curiously bleeding knuckles, Sherlock sat up.

"Gun, Sherlock." I bent down as Sherlock slid it to me directly across the floor. I snatched it up, and cautiously trained it on the crumpled form on the ground, and toed him slightly with my now scuffed high-heel. _Unconscious. Thank God._

I turned around to see Sherlock warily clambered to his feet. He gazed at me with a mixture or pride and surprise, and possibly even a little apprehension. _Well, Monica, you have just knocked out a two hundred pound monster._ I offered him a shy smile, which thankfully he returned with a quick, jerky nod.

Across the hall, Sarah helped John up and he took her hand, wincing as he straightened his back. Sherlock put a hand on my shoulder, and gently steered me towards the exit. John and Sarah followed, and it was only as we left the room and unconscious warrior that my adrenaline drained away and I could suddenly hear sirens.

I started shaking, and Sherlock strangely opened one side of his coat to pull me into him. I welcomed it thankfully, and wound an arm around his thin waist, burrowing my face into his side in fatigue.

...

D.I. Dimmock stormed into the office, ready to confront the boys, Sarah and me. I was sipping a cup of hot chocolate as John draped a blanket around my shoulders. I smiled at him gratefully, but was aware that my occupation meant I was used to these events. From the way Sherlock stared at him disdainfully, I knew he realised that same thing. I wasn't shaking anymore. John smiled back, and moved to put his arm around Sarah once again.

Dimmock slammed the door. _Clearly not in a good mood- wonderful._

"I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is totally deserted."

_Surprise, surprise._ Sherlock spoke up.

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus – that tattoo that we saw on the two bodies: the mark of the Black Lotus Tong."

Dimmock strode over to stand by his desk and turned around to face us, looking utterly bored.

Sherlock glared at him, but carried on. "**Lukis and Van Coon were part of a smuggling operation.** Now, one of them **stole something** when they were in China; something valuable." Dimmock looked away, plainly not listening to a thing Sherlock said, and I grew angry.

"A Tong. Type of international crime organisation, often found in North America but originating from China," I began, spieling all that I could remember about the term. I had heard of them from my previous job, but considering that it wasn't my division, being field agent, I could only give the facts I thought would catch Dimmock's attention. "Violent, prone to be ruthless and secretive. Caused many terrorist threats."

True enough, Dimmock jerked his head up to stare at me. I glanced over at Sherlock. _Yeah, I'm doing you a favour._ I shot him a glare that basically connoted that he would be buying me dinner.

_Tonight actually would be brilliant for a quick takeaway. Anything but Chinese, though. Hmmm, Indian..._

Dimmock straightened up. "So... what's this thing they've stolen?"

Sherlock smiled briefly but then continued, picking up where I had left off. "These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back."

"Yes, got _that_, but get _what_ back?"

Sherlock bit his lip, looking away angrily.

"We don't know." I said slowly, surmising Sherlock's refusal to answer.

"You don't know," Dimmock repeated, his voice dripping with condescension.

Bloody hell, I was so glad I was on Lestrade's team and not this idiot's. _Oh, sir, you're really gonna get on my last nerve in a sec. I'll kick your little punk ass to next Tuesday. Now pipe down and shut up, I just took out a beast about five times the size of your scrawny butt, Detective Inspector sir._

"Mr. Holmes... I've done everything you asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something."

Sherlock, recognising the scepticism in Dimmock's voice, lifted his head and gave a mocking but vaguely proud smile. I, on the other hand, nearly pulled out my gun again. They had tried to relieve me of it, until I flashed my credit card-size license at them. They'd rapidly backed down then.

Dimmock carried on. "I gave the order for a_ raid_ on the hall. _Please_ tell me I'll have something to show for it – other than a massive bill for overtime."

John spoke up from the corner. "Well, we can tell you what we found out during the week."

_Wait, what?_

My interest peaked suddenly- neither of them had said anything about this to me. Sherlock dramatically looked at his watch, and flung himself down into the chair next to me, jittering restlessly as I gave my full attention to John, who seemed to take over the telling of their 'story'.

...

"Okay, so let me get this straight," I started, as we all clambered out the taxi and John paid the driver, "this 'Black Lotus' Tong group, an high-end organisation of smugglers, have targeted _not only_ Lukis and Van Coon, but this 'Soo Lin Yao' too? Who works at the museum, and was a smuggler herself... correct?"

Sherlock nodded.

"But she went into hiding because it turned out that she was one of three who were suspects in what the Tong believes to be someone getting 'sticky fingers'," I took a deep breath, "and all three got a warning, a _graffiti_ warning to clarify-"

"That was left by the group, and we know **translates into the Hangzhou numbers** '1' and '20'," Sherlock added.

"-that they were in danger. This assassin, who _then_ turned out to be Soo Lin Yao's _brother_, killed off Van Coon, thenLukis, _then_ his_own_ sister at the museum where she continued to work under the cover of night."

Sherlock opened the door to 221 Baker Street, and stood aside to let me in first. I still rattled off what I_ thought_ was a summary of what John had explained in Dimmock's office at Scotland Yard. _And the pillocks didn't think that I could come along too_, I thought nastily.

"Right, okay. So then Soo Lin Yao was murdered in the museum, but not before you broke into her flat, leaving John outside," John sent another scathing look at Sherlock, which was promptly ignored, "to shout through the letterbox, putting _you_ in danger because her brother was in the flat too and tried to kill you?"

Sherlock had the decency to look contrite and nodded quickly, before leading us up the stairs to 221B.

_Wow._ Struck dumb, the usually messy but organised living room was now a city of towering, skyscraping tote boxes. Sherlock paid them no mind, but instead stalked over to the fireplace. I carried on.

"You also now think that these Hangzhou numbers translate into a code of some sort... a warning that will lead you to what you think is the missing item?" I rubbed my forehead, throbbing from confusion and fatigue. Sarah looked just as befuddled as I felt, but I was spurred on by Sherlock reassuring nods that I had understood the story to this point.

"Right, okay, how're you gonna find out? I missed that part."

Sherlock gazed at me as he shrugged off his coat, flung it over his armchair and promptly sank down into it himself. John and Sarah busied themselves in the kitchen. "Soo Lin said that it was 'based upon a book'. Upon reflection, I realised that the numbers must have a connection to a book both Lukis and Van Coon share- both being smugglers, they would have to communicate using the same technique. I had all the books from both flats brought to me and John to cross reference, but we couldn't find any appropriate translations of the numbers. So we gave up, but Soo Lin told us the correct translation of the warning, but didn't have time to tell us the book title. We're back at square one. However, we know that the warning we found down at the train tracks, which John photographed, works in the same way."

I saw the related photograph, printed out, lying on the table. I sighed. _Well, at least that explains the masses of tote boxes. _

"So, what do we do now?"

Sherlock didn't answer, and moved over to the dining table, flopping down to survey the paperwork he had spread before him. Sarah and John reappeared, and stood in the doorway.

"Well, I guess I'll leave you three to it then..." Sarah said suddenly.

John looked at her with a sad face. "No, please, Sarah- stay..." He looked at Sherlock and then at me. "If you would like."

Being as rude as he always is, Sherlock muttered something it being better if she left. I shot him the dirtiest look I could muster, and turned my head to Sarah's. "Stay, Sarah. For God's sake, don't leave me alone with these two..."

John got the subtle dig and smiled, whilst Sherlock looked at me with a frown.

"I'm going to order something; am I the only one who is absolutely _starving_?" I said, walking to the telephone on the table. Sherlock sighed and Sarah looked pleased.

"Yes, I'm famished!"

"Thank God, I thought I was the only one. John? Indian alright?"

John laughed, "As long as it's not bloody Chinese, it's good for me."

Sherlock got a bit annoyed that I didn't ask him, but primarily I knew he wouldn't want anything, but also I didn't care; it's his bloody fault he picked a fight earlier in the evening anyway. I resigned, however, to ordering double rice- he'd only steal some of mine when he thinks I'm not looking.

I ordered the food in the kitchen, and when I came back Sherlock was gone again. Sure enough, I heard the front door slam.

"Where is he going?" I asked, looking to Sarah and John.

John looked at me his arms crossed around his chest. "God only knows; Sarah had figured out the meaning behind some numbers that were apparently important..." he shrugged.

The doorbell rang. _Blimey that was quick._ I rummaged for my purse, picking my way through the maze of boxes as John turned to Sarah. "Eat off trays?"

She nodded and he looked at me.

"Okay then, if everyone is..."

I shrugged, not minding either way. _Am I the only one who eats take away out of the bag?_ I then remembered dinner with Jim, where we'd gotten china plates out and everything.

_Jim! The text! Dammit, I'd better reply to that in a minute..._

After a moment the bell rang again as I went downstairs. "Alright! I'm coming!" I opened the door and saw a Chinese man. _God, I never realised how many there actually are in London._ Presuming him to be the deliverer, I take out a twenty and hand it out to him, the other hand awkwardly clutching my purse.

Instead of taking the money offered, he asked; "Do you have it?"

I frowned. "Sorry?"

"Do you have the treasure?!" he asked urgently.

_Wait..._ "I don't understand-"

Before I could react, I heard a slam, and stars exploded in my eyes just before my vision went black.

...

Blinking open my tear-crusted eyes, I immediately felt an aching, dull pain on my temple, and across my forehead. I groaned, before promptly realising I couldn't speak, due to the gag shoved in and tied around my mouth.

My breathing became rapid with panic, and I struggled, acknowledging that my wrists and ankles were tightly bound to the chair upon which I was slumped. I looked around, taking in my surroundings (what appeared to be a dark, damp, dripping wet tunnel, illuminated by golden firelight), and saw Sarah, in the same state as I, next to me and John in front of us.

A sharp clacking of heels that reverberated through my sore head. A drop of blood fell from my temple and landed on my now ruined blouse, the red looking stark against the white.

""A book is like a magic garden,"" a voice came from behind me, almost sung. The clacking passed my bowed form, and as I glanced up, the 'Opera Singer' was staring coolly down at John, who was shaking. I struggled in vain against my constraints, until a pair of huge hands grabbed my shoulders and held me still. I looked up, and a mean face belonging to a Chinese man loomed maliciously down at me. I stopped instantly as she finished, ""_carried in your pocket._""

She smiled ugly, "Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes."

_Excuse me?_ John looked at her, startled.

"I ... I'm not Sherlock Holmes."

She chuckled. "Forgive me... if I _do not_ take your word for it."

Reaching down and pulling his jacket open, she starting rummaging in John's inside pocket. She took out his wallet, opened it and slips something out of it. "Debit card; name of S. Holmes."

The card Sherlock lent him... _**""Have you got cash?" he asked with a faint blush on his cheeks. Sherlock chuckled and inclined his head. "Take my card," he offered, and John stalked out to get it."**_

John tried to explain. "Yes; that's not actually mine. He lent that to me."

She continued, pulling out the tickets stubs from earlier. "Tickets from the theatre, collected by you, name of Holmes."

_Dammit!__** ""And what's the name, please sir?" I looked at John. "Er, Holmes," John answered, waiting as the receptionist looked through the reservations and turned to us again, holding with an envelope."**_

"Yes, okay," John sighed, "I realise what this looks like, but I'm not him-"

"Three times we tried to kill you and your companion, Mr. Holmes."_What?_- but then I realised. **_The museum, the flat, the circus._**"What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?"

She lifts her other hand and cocked a pistol, pulled from her pocket. John cringed back, turning his head away and whispering, "Don't, don't," as he struggled against his bonds. I was panicking myself, but the Chinese man hadn't moved from his stance behind me. I looked around, floundering for a way out of our situation.

She looked down at him and her expression became ominous. John breathed out heavily as her finger tightened on the trigger. Ignoring the hands on my shoulders, I started to struggle strongly against the rope binding my hands, the fibres cutting into my wrists, and I felt my hands become slick with blood. Sarah gave a sob behind her own gag.

I saw John stare into the barrel of the gun, and I could only imagine his face full of terror as she pushed the muzzle point blank against his forehead. I stilled, as her finger pulled slowly on the trigger, flexing it all the way. I gave a scream as the gun clicked...

But no shot came. John grunted in shock, slumping in momentary relief, and the woman smiled smugly. My breath huffed out my nose in respite, whilst I continue to try to think a way out of this.

"It tells you that they're _not really trying_," She finished.

John breathed heavily, trying to get control of himself. The pain in my wrists and head became almost unbearable, but all I could do was stare at the back of John's head, knowing that he was trying so hard not to panic.

_And all because stupid Sherlock had put us in this situation._

_And where the fuck was he?!_

The woman slid a bullet into the pistol and then cocked it again before pointing it at John's head a second time. John cringed away from it with a new verve of fear. "Not blank bullets now," she confided, her tongue caressing the words.

"Okay! Okay! Please, just-"

"If we wanted to kill you, Mr. Holmes, we would have done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive." She practically buried the muzzle in the centre of John's forehead. "Do you have it?"

"Do I have _what_?" John gasped, sounding more and more like he was about to start sobbing.

"The treasure."

John screamed in frustration. "I don't know what you're talking about! Please!"

"Hmm..." She pulled the gun from his head, and instead aimed it at his heart. "I would prefer... to make _certain_."

She looked at her men, one of whom now pulled the cover off a large object behind her, to reveal the crossbow which was used at the circus. An arrow was already loaded in it. John stared at it and sighed deeply. The woman turned back to him.

"Everything in the West has its price; and the price for her life?"

John turned and stared at Sarah desperately, and then twisted around to look at me with fear in his eyes. I could only gaze at him.

"Information," the 'Opera Singer' answered herself.

"Whose life?" he asked, in a small voice. I closed my eyes, knowing who he would pick to live. Despite knowing he didn't mean to hurt me, I realised that he loved Sarah, and would do anything to protect her. I blinked my eyes open again, not surprised to find my vision blurred with tears. At this moment, I had already chosen to give up my life for her.

"You choose."

John didn't say anything. He didn't want to. He couldn't, or wouldn't, say his choice aloud. _Perhaps the truth was too terrible to bear saying. __**John didn't want to hurt me.**_

I said something against my gag, to get the lady's attention. She looked up at me for the first time.

"What's wrong girlie; do you want to say something?" she called out mockingly. I fixed her with a hard stare as John whipped around again to look at me, his mouth pressed in a thin line, and tears forming pools in his eyes.

I nodded at her, and she came towards me, ripping the gag out of my mouth.

"Speak."

I took a deep breath. Looking at John, I smiled calmly, hoping to convey that I forgave him for making this decision, even if he would not say it.

Steeling myself, I glowered up at her.

"Shoot me."

* * *

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	12. The Blind Banker Part V

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**Thank you all for the reviews, I was a bit afraid of what you all were going to think about it... here is finally the last part of The Blind Banker.**

**_I have a little question at the end of this chapter so please take a look at it... I would appreciate it if you would answer it! _**

**Taila, thank you for the lovely long review, I hope you liked the way it ended now (: **

**You guys have no idea how glad you all make me with the reviews! You make me smile each time!**

**Also, I updated the other chapters so the Preface is only in chapter 1, so you don't have to scroll on your mobile like really long. (if anyone is reading this on her/his mobile..)**

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 12: The Blind Banker Part V**

**_"Shoot me."_**

John and Sarah blinked at me a couple of times. John simply looked resigned and incredibly apologetic. Sarah, for the first time, started to struggle. But I kept my eyes trained on the woman before me, who smiled alike to the Cheshire Cat, revealing a set of horrifically stained teeth.

"We have a volunteer!" She turned away, and surveyed her tiny audience. _Oh my God, what have I done?!_

Two men brought Sarah next to John so she could see me. _Oh sweet Jesus, I've survived gunfire and terrorists. I've gotten through being beaten up and nearly being raped, and I'm going to die because of a _fucking crossbow.

John couldn't keep his eyes off me, tears streaking down his bloodstained face. Sarah, to my irritation, simply looked at me with disinterest. Not that I could blame her- she and John were safe for now. I shut my eyes as tears of my own spilt over, and I struggled to keep a sob in me._ I hope they will be happy together later because else I'm doing this for fucking no-one._

The woman smiled as the guard behind her pulled the contraption to face me. I stared down the arrow, and nearly howled in fear._Sherlock, where are you?!_ The woman took out a knife and reached up to the sandbag suspended once again, over a pulley hanging from the ceiling. She stabbed the knife into the bag and sand began to pour out.

I remained silent. _Screaming won't help Monica. You know it won't. So just stay quiet, and go out with dignity. Mother and father need never know what happened. It'll just be another job, another accident._

I could only concentrate on my own breathing, which remained very calm. Too calm. It was like my body didn't even care that I was about to die. I was determined to stare into the depths of the woman's gaze before me as I died. I was proud of the steely tranquillity that flooded my system, and slowed my heart rate. _This is it._

I could hear the smile in her voice as she addressed John and Sarah, "Ladies and gentlemen. From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your_ pleasure_... Sherlock Holmes' pretty companion in a _death-defying act_."

"Please! PLEASE!" John screamed it out as first, later Sarah started screaming. The woman came over to me and laid a black origami lotus flower on my lap.

"You've seen the act before," she murmured to me, "How _dull _for you. You know how it ends."

For the last time John tried to save me, but no use. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes!"

"I don't believe you."

_"You should, you know," _came the most wonderful, low, desperately beautiful voice I'd ever heard. A long shadow played on the walls, coming from behind me at the end of tunnel.

_Sherlock?! Why? _I twisted around to try to see him, knocking the flower to the ground. _He's the fucking reason I'm sitting here! _And whilst I was crying with the sheer relief of hearing his voice, I could wait to hit the little prick so hard his clothes would be out of style. _I'll kill you for putting me in this position, Sherlock fucking Holmes!  
_  
The woman span around to where the sound was coming from.

"Sherlock Holmes is nothing like him"

The woman raised her pistol and aimed it at the sound- coming from the back of the tunnel like I thought. I could see his silhouette dive behind a tower of rubble as the Chinese man from earlier jogged towards him. His velvet voice, however, still echoed around the tunnel.

"How would you describe me, John? _Resourceful_? _Dynamic_?" A thump resonated from the spot where Sherlock disappeared. "What about you, Monica? _Saviour_?"

That last one was just to annoy me. _Oh yes, good timing to try to be funny, Sherlock. I'd wrap my arms around my chest from all the _hilarity _if they weren't strapped to a fucking chair, you stupid little shit. _The sand was still trickling, and the weight was about to reach the halfway point of the dish.

John answered with a simple '_late_?' and I smiled. _Yes I can fucking smile at that Sherlock because John here is 100% correct. You're so late to get us out of this mess _you fucking put us in.

"That's a semi-automatic, am I right, Monica? If I'm correct, you fire it, and the bullet will travel at over a thousand metres per second." Sherlock avoided John's comment.

The weight started inching down, almost at the halfway point. _I_ really_ shouldn't find that sexy right now. _But I did. _Nothing better than a man in action._ Stop it, stop it! You are about to _die_ Monica, shut the fuck up!

The woman looked shaken, "Well?"

"Well," I heard a noise wonderfully sounded like someone being slammed to the ground and some more noises_. By the sound of it, a metal pipe. Damn that bloke's gonna have a headache. _I smiled. _Wait... Sherlock slammed someone to the ground with a metal pipe? _

"The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four metres. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit _you_." It must be the adrenalin, but even that little snippet of logic was doing things to my stomach that I could only describe as huge fucking butterflies. _Just fucking save me, already!_

I heard footsteps running to the other side, pushing something away. John flinched at the sound it made and Sarah was still staring at the weight, and then at me, and then at the weight again.

Suddenly Sherlock rushed towards my chair and I heard him panting behind me. John and Sarah looked over at us and the 'Opera Singer''s eyes widened. _Sherlock... _I turned to look at him, and his eyes blazed into mine. _Oh, God..._

Sherlock started to untie my hands but someone pushed him away, sending him sprawling to the ground. Noticing the weight was near its destination, I looked to Sherlock clambered to his feet as quickly as possible. I could see the weight about to reach the dish, and I realised that the last thing I wanted to see before I died was his ocean-like eyes.

I smiled and closed my eyes. _He won't reach the arrow in time. Not from that far away._ I tried to concentrate on my breathing again.

Suddenly, the sound of someone falling to the ground with a loud noise came, but I couldn't look. I just couldn't. My breathing started to fasten and my hands started to get slick with more blood as I struggled and as my heart rate quickened.

Abruptly, I heard the unmistakable noise of the crossbow coming through the air.

_It's done._

But instead of landing in me, it whistled past me, and met another target with a resounding thunk. I open my eyes wildly, and the long, thick arrow was buried in the stomach of the Chinese man less than a metre to my left. I looked, bewildered, to the floor, and saw John lying on the floor next to the contraption, and still bound to his chair. He simply looked relieved. _Oh my God, John..._

Sarah's eyes were like saucers, but her crying had halted in shock.

John kept staring at me. _It's okay, _his eyes said.

_It's fine._

_We're all okay._

All of a sudden, it hit me just how close I really was to death. My breath started to get shallower and shallower, and tears streaked down my cheeks without my conscious demand. Not only did I almost die, also John, Sarah. _Even Sherlock could have died._

My heart twisted horribly at the thought.

Headaches all came rushing. Chest pain, shallow but fast breathing. Clammy skin. Dizzy. _I'm going into shock. Just like that time. With him._

_Oh God._

_Oh Lord help me._

_Help._

My sobs wracked through me as I stared into the darkness, the candles mostly extinguished. Sherlock straightened, smoothing his blazer and looked down to the tunnel entrance from whence he came, seeing the woman fleeing in that direction. I could tell that he was about to run. I close my eyes, failing to get a hold on my body.

John had managed to rip free of his bindings, and was speaking lowly to Sarah, calming her as he released her.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of me, but I barely pay attention to him.

"It's all right," he said lowly, trying to be soothing, but all he came across as was cold. I needed warmth, and my shoulders were still wracking.

John stood up and my eyes flickered over to him and back to the inky darkness. _Try to control yourself. Bloody get a grip. _But I couldn't, and the tears kept falling.

"You're gonna be all right," Sherlock tried again. He cupped my cheeks in his hands tenderly, and brought his face closer to mine. "It's over now," he said. "It's over."

I was silent, distracted by his calm, beautiful eyes that was so peaceful. I needed to drown in eyes like that. He cautiously removed his hands to untie my wrists, careful of the now drying blood that caked them. Caringly, his hands then slid down to my ankles, and unbound those too. My hands rested in my lap as I watched him, crying again but silently and steadily.

John and Sarah came over to my chair.

"Sherlock, she needs to get home, or even the hospital," John said, the doctor in his voice coming out. "She's going into shock."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at John and looked at me again. He hooked a surprisingly strong arm under my knees, and snaked the other softly around my waist. I gasped as he lifted me, and pulled me onto his lap. Sherlock Holmes, the great Consulting Detective, rocked me back and forth as I clutched at his shirt.

"Sh-Sherlock-"

He brought a finger to my lips, and stroked my hair as finally, for the first time that even, I opened the floodgates and unabashedly screamed and howled into his chest.

I expected Sherlock to freeze stiffly and no longer wish to be near me. Instead, he pulled me in even tighter as John and Sarah left to phone the police.

He tucked my head under his chin, and despite the devastation I was in, I'd felt the safest I had been for a very, _very _long time.

...

I was shivering uncontrollably, but this time from the cold, rather than fear. The voices surrounding me in the open air outside the tunnel were faint as I tried to not fall asleep, huddled under Sherlock's woolen coat.

"Yeah... No, Lestrade... two weeks at most, I think... She can't... I know... No it just really scared her, I think... Yeah, logical... I'm not going to... Well, maybe..."

John was on the phone talking to Lestrade. I started to mumble something what was supposed to be English, but came out in Dutch.

"What are you saying, Monica? We are in _England._ Speak our language, please."

I looked to Sherlock, who was standing before me, holding out a cup of steaming liquid. I took a sip. _Hmm, hot chocolate. _I smiled at him gratefully, as he flopped down onto the lip of the ambulance door, returning my smile.

Opening my mouth, a strangled version of 'Sorry' tried to surface. I gave up on talking, since nothing deemed as distinguishable English would come out of my mouth at this moment in time.

Sherlock stood up and came closer. "John? I think Monica needs to go home, now."

John nodded, and finished on the phone, handing it back to the police officer to whom it belonged, before walking over and stood before us. He crouched down in front of me, but I was watching Sarah being checked over by another paramedic.

"Monica, can you hear me?"

I nodded my head, still shivering. "Sherlock, you see those blankets behind you on the gurney? Bring her some, drape them around her... Yeah, like that."

I felt the weight of them on me, and I pulled my legs up to tuck under them, drink precariously balanced in one hand.

"Better?" I nodded again, still not trusting my voice.

"Do you want to go home? You can now; the paramedics were reluctant, but they've let you go, seeing as I'm a doctor. And the police can come for your statement in the morning. Do you want to go?"

_That sounds like heaven. I need warmth. And sleep. _I nodded as enthusiastically as I could.

Sherlock pulled the blankets off of me as John straightened to inform the officers of our departure. I started as Sherlock reached his coat draped around me, and tried to hand it to him.

"No, Monica, wear it," he said. He took it off, holding it out so I could put my arms in the sleeves properly. _God, I hope he stays like this for a while. It's nice to have a lovely Sherlock._

I looked up at him, his face determined and surprising tender.

_Or maybe... maybe he was there all that time._

_..._

"You scared us for a moment there," Sherlock said as I attempted to open the door of my flat. I looked at him over my shoulder, and he smiled a bit, trying to soften the situation.

My voice had returned, as well as my ability to speak comprehensible English, during the taxi ride. I shrugged off Sherlock's coat, and handed it to him.

"You can go, now, Sherlock. I'll be fine now," I assured him. "Thank you... for tonight... I," I ran my hand through my now blood-soaked, dirt-caked hair, "I cannot thank you... enough." Tears threatened to spill again, and I hid my eyes behind my hands, desperately trying not to embarrass myself further.

Randomly, his hands covered mine, and he pulled them away. He wiped my eyes for me, and held my head so carefully, I almost cried from the kindness.

Mrs Hudson and John thundered around upstairs, and I heard John call down, "Sherlock, tea?"

Looking at him, he ignored his flatmate, and brought my head forward, so his lips lightly kissed my newly stitched up forehead. They stayed there, a cool balm against the poker-hot heat of my headache, for a good few seconds, and I felt my body relax.

Sherlock pulled away.

"It's okay, Monica. We're all are here for you... Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, John, m-me," he faltered, glancing down all of sudden. He then unexpectedly whispered, "_No need to be afraid._"

I cupped his chin up with my right hand, and pressed a small but firm kiss to the corner of his mouth. Smiling shyly, I entered my flat, and as I turned to close the door, Sherlock stood there, dumbfounded, fingers lightly tracing the spot where my lips had nearly touched his.

* * *

**QUESTION**

**I was thinking about writing a some sort of special chapter... in where they go on a holiday, now the question is; Where do you want them to go?**

**And another small question; Who has Tumblr (or Twitter if you really don't have a Tumblr) and what is your URL? I'll try to send you a message then when there is a new update! **

**_Review and make my day!_**

**(Don't forget to follow this fic so you can stay updated for further updates.)**


	13. Chemical defect Part I

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**Oh god I'm so sorry for not uploading for a while! I hope I didn't lose readers :/ **

**I hope you enjoy this chapter! Since she is going to Belgium she'll speak Dutch sometimes, but don't worry I wrote the English translation beside it.  
Just remember that Sherlock and John don't know the meaning of them! 'Papa' means dad and 'Mama' means mum. (Just that you know!)**

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 13: Chemical defect**

To the untrained eye, I wouldn't be surprised if an outsider likened me to a bat out of hell, considering the way I was scampering around my flat. Backside in the air, I was searching under my bed for my hairbrush. _Negative, Houston, but I'm sure you've inhaled a couple of diseases. And I think that old sock just moved._

Lovely.

I emerged, red-faced, and threw a last glance around my impressively messy room, and nearly screamed in frustration. Turning my back on my suitcase, I strode out to face the rest of my flat, looking as if it had equally been wrecked by a bomb._ Wonderful, just wonderful._

Flinging open my front door, I flew out to the bottom of the stairs, and called up in a fluster. "John?" He was munching a piece of toast as he descended a couple of stairs, and poked his hair over the landing. His greying blond hair was in disarray, but his blue eyes sparkled in amusement.

"Yes?" he answered, mouth full and crumbs fixed to his face. I could hear the kettle boiling as I climbed up the stairs to him. He turned and strolled casually into the living room, to where a certain Consulting Detective was sitting, crossed-legged in his armchair, neurotically attentive to the news on the television.

I sighed, running my hands through my hair. "Have you seen my hairbrush? I can't find it anywhere..." I trailed off. John went out to pull the screeching kettle off the stove as I flopped down into his chair opposite Sherlock, knees jittering in energy and annoyance.

"Um, no... I have no idea, Monica," John called out, clinking the mugs together. "Tea?" I grunted an affirmative, head in hands. _Stressing yourself out about this really isn't gonna help matters, Monica. Have a cup of tea and calm the Hell down.  
_

John waltzed back into the living room, handed me my cup and perched on the arm. I made to stand, but he waved me down, taking a sip and grimacing at the temperature. "I haven't seen it, in any case. Maybe it's on your dressing table somewhere?"

I shot him a look that instantly informed him of what I thought about his suggestion. Given that I'd practically dismantled said dressing table searching for the sodding brush, his idea was as useful as a chocolate teapot. Getting the hint, John stood, grabbed his mug, and as unassuming as possible, rushed out to his room. Within minutes, I heard the shower start.

Sherlock sighed, and leant back into his chair, fingers ever steepled under his chin. He was stilled dressed in pajamas and his silk dressing gown. _Hmm. _Over the last several days, I'd begun to think about him a lot more... vividly? _Certainly not what we were going for, is it sweetheart? _ Oh for God's sake, do shut incident with 'The Opera Singer' had occurred just over a week ago, and to be perfectly honest, I was still shaken. Sherlock _had _helped a great deal, however... not that one would think that, given his behaviour. Since the morning after mine and John's kidnapping, he had simply reverted back to his cold, arrogant self... yet again.

_It's not like he's ignoring you... _No, he simply just doesn't talk to me. Every time I asked something, or talked to him about one of the cases he was investigating, he would just answer monosyllabically and wander off someplace else. Not that I would mind usually, but bearing in mind that the man was a complete, self-diagnosed show-off, could barely shut up _and _the 'moment' we shared that night, it was rather deprecating.

Out the corner of my eye, I watched him carefully, and tried not to concentrate too hard on this little problem. I'd been cooped up in 221 Baker Street all week- DI Lestrade's orders, apparently- and was climbing the walls. I longed to be out in London, or somewhere doing something. But I'd been signed off sick for two weeks, and the way I saw it, it was a fit time for a... holiday... of sorts. As usual, I'd left packing to the last minute, and we were leaving in a few hours. _And yet I still couldn't find that bloody hairbrush._

Sherlock's eyes suddenly locked with mine as I took a sip of my cooling tea, and although I smiled, he simply ignored me and switched his gaze back to the television._ Jesus Christ, the man's a bloody child._ I sighed._ Well, if he wants to act that way, let him._

Somewhere among my musings, I registered that the water pipes had stopped gurgling. John wandered back into the living room soon after, dressed in one of his fabulous jumpers and jeans, and rubbing his towel vigorously on his hair. I had to giggle. The bloke looked like he'd just played with the electric socket; his hair wonderfully resembled a dandelion head. "What's the name again of the city we are going?" John asked, running his hands through his hair, looking in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Whereas Sherlock would have to stoop to do so, it amused me endlessly to watch John stand practically on tiptoe.

Suddenly, a wave of excitement flooded me. It was official; John, Sherlock and I were going on holiday. Originally, John thought that would be a good idea for me to see my parents again, especially after the incident. I'd leapt at the idea of returning home to my country and my parents, but the shock came with Sherlock's affirmation that he too wanted to come.

I stood up, and answered John as I put my mug in the sink. "_Ieper, _John," I called. As I moved out of the other door of the kitchen towards the landing, I heard John mutter in confusion.

"Eh?"

I had to laugh. "And in English, _you_ would say... _Ypres_," I smiled as comprehension dawned on his face. Chuckling to myself, I clambered back down the stairs, and went back to my room to finish my packing.

_Maybe the brush is under the bloody sofa again._

...

**SHERLOCK'S POV**

Sherlock stood up sharply, and strode through the kitchen to his room, and slammed the door behind him. Kicking his neatly packed suitcase to the side, he flopped down on his bed dramatically, and closed his eyes, sighing deeply. _No, no use. _Shutting his eyelids, inexplicably, did nothing to ease the fact that he was musing over a certain woman, living and breathing not eight feet below his own resting frame.

He sat up, and rubbed his hands over his head, ruffling his curls in the way he knew Monica appreciated. _Her pupils dilate, breath quickens, blush appears. _Smiling knowingly to himself, Sherlock knew that he'd only have to grab her wrist to determine that her pulse would suddenly be working double time.

Swinging his legs off the bed, and placing them firming on the floor, he looked into the mirror fixed to his wardrobe door. Staring back at him was an ethereal, not-quite-human human being... Oh, how he despised dimly registered that his cheekbones looked even more hollow in the muted sunlight, and his eyes, usually the colour of sludgy sea- _Boring.- _were suddenly bright and alive. _Is this what that woman does to me? _Growling in frustration, he bolted up, and threw open his suitcase, lying on the floor where he'd shifted it not seconds before.

_Is that how she sees me? _He mused, unexpectedly fervent to know the answer.

Mainly to keep his mind from focusing on..._ other _matters, Sherlock quickly ran through what he had packed, and wondered if any other eventualities would arise whereupon he would need other items.

Purple shirt; _she's complimented that one, even if it is a little snug._

Blue shirt; _apparently, it makes my eyes look brighter._

White shirt; _it looks 'smart'._

Three pairs of black trousers. Sherlock appreciated his shirts very much, but was not too worried about the trousers. He'd further packed his toiletries, a spare black jacket, his red scarf should anything happen to his preferred blue one, a book that Mrs Hudson had bought him for Christmas on necrosis, and had only his nightclothes left to add. _I can change in a moment._

Checking his trademark coat, which hung surreptitiously on his door, he found his mobile phone, wallet, keys, and his flight ticket tucked inside his abominable passport. _Not that I need it; Mycroft surely could have just lent me his plane. _Not that Sherlock knew how to fly a plane, of course, but he was sure it would be foolproof. If idiots can do it, he could surely master it in the next couple of hours. Musing quietly on whether John would be harbouring a book on aviation, Sherlock flopped back on his bed, hands pressed together as he explored his luxurious Mind Palace, methodically searching for any data on flying a standard jet.

He heard John move around in the kitchen, and stomp to his bedroom. _SHUT UP! God. _Sherlock grimaced, shaking off the distraction like an irksome fly. His mind, however, raced ahead at a hundred miles an hour. However, every time he latched onto a door, he'd open it and find _her_ behind it.

Smiling, waving, crying... _She looked even more beautiful when she cri- NO. STOP._

He slammed the door, and raced ahead to the next.

Opened it.

_Her lips, soft and pink, placing that wonderfully tender kiss on m- FOR GOD'S SAKE!_

"ARGH," Sherlock yelled out, and flew out of his room, desperate for something that would divert him from thinking about Monica. _I NEED A CASE. GET ME A CASE._

Sherlock sprinted to John's room, and flung open the door. John scrambled, and quickly stuffed something under his bed. _Magazines? Wh- Oh. **Porn. **_Sherlock sighed.

_Dull._

"S-Sherlock," John began, stuttering as his face slowly turned an unflattering shade of puce, "You can _just knock_ on the door you know," he finished weakly, and resolved to just clearing his throat and standing. Sherlock could only be thankful that his colleague didn't bring Sarah or whoever he was seeing to the flat on a regular basis. **_Three-continents-Watson._**

"John," Sherlock began, squaring his shoulders and breathing hard, "What am I feeling?"

John raised his eyebrows at his flatmate's puzzled face. "What do you mean?" He stood, and gave up on embarrassment, as he transferred the magazines to the bottom of his suitcase perched on his bed.

"Goodness sake, didn't you hear me?" Sherlock nearly spat out, exasperated. "What am I _feeling?" _ He hated repeating himself, and he would be indubitably irritated had the matter not been as urgent as it was.

"How can I _possibly_ know what you are feeling, Sherlock," John said, trying to squeeze all the contents of his case down as he zipped it up. "How ca- wait. Y-you are... _feeling_ something?" he managed, eyes wide as he took in Sherlock's appearance. Sherlock registered vaguely that his clothes must be rumpled, hair in disarray and his hands unconsciously clenching at his side. John weakly sat on the bed, staring at the taller man.

"Of course I can feel, John!" He began to walk nervous from the one side of the room to the other, and John's head moved with every movement he made. "Despite what all you _idiots_ at the Yard must think, I am _not_ a machine."

"Well, okay... explain to me then," John started, crossing his arms, "_How_ do you feel?" The doctor in him automatically thought his friend must be ill, but a niggling suspicion wondered if it was something else. Something like this had never happened before in the few years he had known him, and it shook Dr. Watson.

Sherlock clutched at his hair as he paced. From his expression, twisted and painful, was no doubt a mark of his... shame? Possibly his frustration in himself for even talking about his feelings, yet he rattled on at a speed so fast that even he hardly understood what he was saying.

"I can't _think _properly, I can't concentrate on my _cases_, I make _mistakes_ because I can't concentrate... Me, John! Making _mistakes!" _ Sherlock was faintly aware the John smiled slightly, but ploughed on.

"_Every _time I think about her! I see her, it's like I never want her to be away from me... but that's not _possible_, John!" Sherlock was practically sobbing in confusion and exasperation. John slowly stood, and reached out. Sherlock batted his hand away, and was physically shaking as he finished his 'symptoms'.

"Even when I'm playing the _violin _I'm thinking about her! And when she walks past me, I can't _breathe_ properly and _that's _the easiest, most boring thing in the world!" Sherlock clutched at his dressing gown and hair, desperate to tether himself to some corporeal, that could keep his feet grounded in reality. Where there was logic and reason- two things that he couldn't comprehend as he finished off his spiel to his doctor. "And when I simply _think _about her, not that I even_ want _to, but when I do, something happens in my stomach that I can't even descr-"

He looked at the floor, his words catching in his throat. Humiliatingly, he felt the back of his eyes and throat burn, and John shifted slightly. Glancing up, all Sherlock saw in John's soft gaze was an understanding and... not quite pity, but empathy... to what Sherlock had just expressed. **_John knows what's happening to me._**

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again, and was struck dumb by John's slow, curving smile. Finding his voice, Sherlock whispered, feeling somewhat like a child, "I don't know what to do, John. I think I'm dying- my chest seizes up so painfully, and I lose my ability to function." Shaking his head, the detective leant against the wall, wanting nothing more than to sink to the ground and allow it to swallow him whole. He was stupid to let John see all that. _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_.

He gazed back at John and frowned when he saw the smile still on his face. "Why are you smiling? This is serious, John. What disease do I have?!"

John sighed, sat back down on the bed, and crossed his legs. He patted it next to him, and Sherlock took the invitation to sit down next to his confidant. Folding a leg up underneath him, he faced John, and was anxious for a diagnosis. Again, to his astonishment, John mirrored him and chuckled. _What the..._

"Sherlock, I can promise you that you are not _dying_," John started, with a soft expression, "_nor_ do you have a disease." Sherlock's eyebrows knitted in confusion, and he could only imagine how childish he looked and how infantile he was acting. Secretly, he was glad that it was John witnessing this- his... _friend_... could be trusted with anything, as far as the Detective was concerned.

"Fine. So what's wrong with me, John?"

The doctor took a deep breath, unsure how to broach the issue. "A moment ago... I assume you are talking about Miss Monica-"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted curtly, nodding his heading and almost as quickly looking away, determined not to meet John's eyes. John couldn't feel the dizziness that even her _name_ made Sherlock feel.

"Sherlock, I think you are in love."

_Excuse me? _ "Begging your pardon John but-"

"I think you are in love, Sherlock, and I would say," John chuckled, "_rather badly."_ Whilst he had endless sympathy for Sherlock, who was discovering the concept a good fifteen years later than most human beings, John had to be amused as the fact his colleague had just discovered _feelings._

The taller man only shook his head in response. "No, no. I-I... c-can't be," Sherlock was shaking his head desperately, eyes burning worse than ever as he stared down at his shaking hands folded in his lap.

He took a deep breath to still the quaver in his voice. _Harden yourself, Sherlock. Tuck the edges in, make no-one see anything but the cold. _Sherlock's voice was rigid like ice as he said, "love is a chemical defect found in the losing side, John. I cannot be in love." Just to be clear, the emphasis on 'cannot' was heavily apparent, and John winced.

Eventually rolling his eyes, the doctor stood again. "Fine, Sherlock. You deny these feelings rather than admit it to yourself, and maybe even her." John pulled the suitcase off the bed, trying to ignore his friend's expression. His heart couldn't help but wrench at the ice cold facade Sherlock wore- it was cracking terrible and his misty sea-like eyes showed nothing but pain, confusion and childlike helplessness. John's breath caught in his throat, "but Sherlock, just _please_ sort _something_ out, because it's obviously bothering you in some kind of way."

"Of course I can't possibly deny that!" Sherlock burst suddenly, yelling back in a furious, babyish tantrum. "It's impossible!"

"Well, _tell her then!" _

"No! I can't, John!" He clutched his hair wildly, chest wracking with sobs, "I just can't!"

Suddenly, shocking both Sherlock and John, the door opened and Monica poked her pretty blonde head around the door, gazing curiously at her two duelling housemates. "You guys okay?" She shuffled into the room slightly, and Sherlock couldn't breathe. _Count to ten, stare at the wall, walk out, do SOMETHING._

Through the murky depths of his minds, her words swam up to him as she carried on, and each one was like a knife in his heart. "I heard you shouting at each other- again," She looked at Sherlock quizzically and he immediately glanced away, the feeling in his stomach coming back with a vengeance. Out the corner of his eye, he saw John glance at him and sigh.

"We're okay, Monica... just a little argument... Don't worry, sweetheart," John smiled at her, and Sherlock registered a faint flicker of anger at the endearment. _Why? What the hell-_

"Oh," Monica laughed, and the music was even sweeter than Sherlock's best compositions. "What was it about, dare I ask?" Her sky blue eyes flashed beautifully, and the rosiness in her cheeks temporary rendered Sherlock speechless.

"M-Magazines," Sherlock answered, stuttering at first, but simply desperate to _change the bloody conversation._

"..Okay," She smiled and awkwardly walked out, the staircase echoing her footfall as she went back to her flat. Whilst hearing her footsteps fade away, John gave Sherlock a look.

"Really? "Magazines"?" John sighed, and went to tidy his rumpled bed. "Listen, Sherlock... Do whatever you want. But," and John glared at him over his shoulder, "don't you _dare_ fool around with her feelings." Sherlock was suddenly taken aback and not for the first time was afraid of Dr John Hamish Watson.

"Why would I 'fool around' with her feelings?" Sherlock demanded.

John sighed, and turned to face him. "You are already _doing_ that Sherlock... the way you comforted her after the kidnapping, the looks you give her when you think she's not looking, the compliments on her clothes..." Sherlock blushed and glanced at his feet, "you give her hope... and then you just act cold again."

John shrugged as Sherlock looked back up at him, and stared worriedly at his friend's words.

"I don't-"

"You always do that, Sherlock. Just, please, _please..._ be careful," John finished, and walked past Sherlock to grab his toothbrush from the bathroom.

Sherlock thought John's warning for a second, before returning to his own bathroom for a shower. He thought over their conversation and Monica's interruption as he lathered the soap over his chest and arms, and washed his dark hair unceremoniously.

Watching the suds watch down the drain, the warm shower on his back calmed him as it rarely did, and his brushed his now very long hair- considering the curls were now soaked- out of his eyes.

Turning around, he closed his eyes, and once again, Monica crept into his mind. And he focused on the smaller things- the curve of the small of her back as it swept down to her buttocks, her décolletage and the pendant bouncing on it as she walked, her calves in those dastardly high-heels, her lusciously deep Cupid's bow somewhat like his own, her long fingers on her soft hands...

After two minutes and thirty-seven seconds of this daydream, Sherlock sighed gloomily, and reached for a different tap on the shower unit. _Looks like another cold shower, Sherlock._

_Bloody transport._

...

**MONICA'S POV**

The glare of the white airport arrival lounge momentarily blinded me as I pulled my suitcase, following the foreigners that chatted animatedly in front of me. I glanced back at Sherlock, tall, angular and devastatingly beautiful, as he smiled slightly at me. John beside him looked weary but was talking happily to his dark-cloaked friend.

I stepped out into the tiled lounge, and scanned for my name on a card. I spotted it, and immediately located the blonde, face-lined woman standing with a chestnut haired man, who beamed with crinkled, startlingly crystal eyes.

"_Mama? Papa?_" Tears started to form in my eyes.

They called out as I recklessly abandoned my suitcase, and my likewise startled and deserted friends, as I sprinted to them, crashing inelegantly into a huge three-way hug.

_"Monica, kind! We je hebben gemist! **Monica, kiddo! we missed you!"**_ My father cried out,_ "Ik hield van de tekening die je naar mij voor mijn verjaardag hebt gestuurd! **I loved the drawing you sent to me for my birthday!"** _

After exchanging kisses we broke apart, and I looked back to John and Sherlock standing about ten feet away, and looking a mixture of perplexed and awkward at my family's exchange.

Switching back to English so they could understand, I reluctantly let go of my parents, and waved out an arm to invite John and Sherlock to come meet them. John leapt forward politely enthusiastic, and even Sherlock seemed to be making an effort to appear amiable.

"I'm sorry; John, Sherlock this is my mother, Anna and my father, Robert," I smiled at my parents in turn, "Mamma, Papa, this is Sherlock and John." I saw their faces light up when they saw Sherlock in particular, although they gave John warm smiles and my father shook his hand. Upon turning to reach for Sherlock's hand, Papa tried his best English.

"Well... Hello, Sherlock, John... we are happy... you... come," Papa said quite brokenly, but John nodded eagerly. My father then leant down to me, and whispered, _"Is dat niet de man van op je tekening, liefje? **Isn't that the guy from your drawing sweetheart?****"**_

I nodded and smiled."See, Sherlock? My father recognises you from my drawing." He ignored me, and my smiled faded.

John tactfully broke the silence. "It's wonderful to meet you, Mr and Mrs Smith. Monica has told us a lot about Belgium."

My dad smiled, and my mum was the first to speak after an awkward moment.

_"__Monica, we hebben je oud huis voor je er deze week in verblijven als je wilt**. Monica, we've cleaned up your old house for you. You can stay in it this week if you want to.**"_

My father nodded. _"Ik heb wat eten in de koelkast gelegd en de bedden gemaakt. **I've put some food in the fridge and made the beds**."_

Translating to Sherlock and John what they had both said, they agreed graciously.

"It was nice... see you... John and Sherlock..." Sherlock raised his eyebrows at my father's intonation of English, and glanced at me pointedly. "I hope... we meet again... later."

Papa grabbed me for the last time, pulled me into a tight hug, and said goodbye. My mother did the same a moment later.

"Nice meeting you too, Mr Smith," Sherlock said, speaking for the first time since we'd arrived.

John leaned over to me whilst my parents quietly and quickly chatted to each other, and whispered, "So, wait- where're we going?"

"Going to my old house- Mamma and Papa kept it for me and looked after it, in case I came back on holiday or for good. Like I just said- Papa told us that they've got some food in, and made the beds- I have two spare bedrooms you and Sherlock can stay in," I whispered back. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement behind him, and I realised he'd been listening. _Bloody hell, I half-expected the guy to understand Dutch- he's so bloody brilliant at everything else, why the Hell not?_

My dad looked at Sherlock, and then at me. I could almost read my father's familiar eyes, so like my own- _Nice one you found there, Liefje._

I rolled my eyes, "Bye Papa, nice to see you again. Mamma, we'll pop around later this evening or something, okay?"

They walked us out to the taxi rank, and as we clambered in- suitcases and all-, Sherlock frowned and looked out of the window, pointed chin resting delicately in his hand. _Probably deducing that entire exchange._

John was quietly exclaiming at the passing scenery, but my eyes were only on the Detective beside me, and I was starting to dread what remarks he would make as soon as we pulled up to my own home.

_Oh, bloody hell._

* * *

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	14. Chemical defect Part II

**REVIEW ANSWERS****_ (IMPORTANT DO READ PLEASE) _**

**First of all I really need to give Anna a big thank you again, cause that girl is correcting my damn stupid faults from the beginning and even when she is really busy she makes time to correct this! Anna good God what would I be without you! **

**Then secondly I must say something that isn't fun for me and for you (I think)... My exams are going to start really soon (12th June) and I'm not allowed to come on my laptop for 2 weeks then. I'll try to update in the weekend, but it means I can't write that much. I'm sorry for that but...**

**I promise you the next chapter will have a wonderful (?) surprise... I'll give you 3 words... (like Moffat did, oh I feel so Moffaty -yes I made that an adjective- today);**

_**Sherlock - Love- Ship**_

**Have a nice day and let me know in a review what you think that will be in the next chapter! Almost 150 reviews you guys, you make me all smile every time I read them! **

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 14: Chemical defect Part II**

Now, I'm no expert, but if I didn't know any better, Sherlock was evidently on his best behaviour. And how did I know this? Well, if you can believe it, a miracle happened- Sherlock Holmes, sarcasm extraordinaire and tactful-he-is-not Consulting Detective, did not said _one single thing _about my house.

Nothing about the peeling windowsills outside, nor the cat-flap grubby from disuse. Nothing about the old drawings that were hanging on my fridge, not a word about the slightly dusty pictures of my family and I on the wall. _Not even _on remark about the atrocious noise that the door to his bedroom makes. Not one thing.

Is it your birthday, Monica? It's that... or Christmas has come early.

Setting about putting the kettle on, I heard the boys upstairs unpacking their suitcases. As the water started to heat up, I trudged up wearily to my own room, and found myself flopping unceremoniously onto the bed, burying my nose into the blankets and sniffing the home-y scent I had missed so much.

I heard John come out of his room and disappear into Sherlock's momentarily- something about a toiletries bag getting mixed up- and as the kettle boiled quietly downstairs and switched itself off, I looked around the room that I hadn't seen in quite a while.

Only now had it started to become clear for me how much I had missed my old house. Sitting up, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and looked into the mirror. A petite but toned girl- something I do pride myself on- stared back at me, with fluffy, haywire platinum blonde hair, strong pink lips and crystal blue eyes. My appearance didn't bother me, but what did was the opinion of a certain man... and what he might say about how I looked. On cue, Sherlock padded out of his room to John's- seemingly to return the aforementioned wash bag.

As his door clicked back shut, I let out a deep breath I hadn't realised I was holding. My face fell into my hands.

_What the hell is wrong with me?! And for that matter, what's up with the normally so loud and annoying detective? _Counting the days in my head, it must have been already a week that he last acted or said something completely ghastly. And there was no indication as to a reason why.

_John must know about it, Sherlock tells him everything._ I couldn't bare the feeling that something was wrong with Sherlock anymore, something that I could prevent or fix, and finally heaved myself off my creaky bed, and ignoring the kettle, went to John in his room.

I knocked, heard John grunt, and entered, immediately closing the door behind me.

"Hi, Monica," John said with surprise as he glanced up from his clothes and smiled at me. He was folding a jumper and tucking it into a drawer opposite the bed. "I'm sorry, I thought you were Sherlock _again. _You alright?"

Nodding half-heartedly and wringing my hands, I slowly walked to the bed and sat on the edge of it, tracing the soft green material under my fingers. Frowning slightly, I attempted to go for the casual tone, but considering that I had obviously come for an actual purpose, there was no beating about the bush. "John, what's wrong with Sherlock?"

John whirled around to stare at me, before chuckling lightly and look down at his hands clutching a pair of mismatching socks. Heaving a sigh, he placed then back into his suitcase, and sat down beside me on the bed, scooting closer to me and pushing away a pair of corduroy trousers. Glancing down at my own lap, I noticed John's hands clasped together and tucked between his thighs.

"Well, a lot, to be honest," John laughed humourlessly, "But something tells me you don't mean his normal state of being. Something tells me you are referring to the way he's been acting this week, right?"

I nodded whilst toeing at the grey carpet. "Is it... Oh, I don't know...," I looked up at him, "Is it a _case_ that I don't know about?"

John shook his head, his eyes weary and nervous. **_John knows. _**Simply, he looked like he was fighting against his better judgement to tell me the truth. I sighed, and returned to looking at my interlocked fingers. John eventually replied, careful with his words, "He's just a bit tired, I think." He shrugged. "That's all."

I blinked a couple of times, feeling disappointed and dismayed that _John, _of all people, wouldn't tell me the truth. Petty tears clouded my vision, and I prayed that none would fall. _Doesn't he trust me enough to tell me? _My body betrayed me, and a salty tear splashed into my waiting palm.

John saw, and reached out uncertainly. His breath caught in his throat, and I could tell that he isn't regretted not telling me. "Monica, I-"

"It's okay, John," I breathed in deeply, desperate not to cry anymore. "I just... ah, I just... _don't like_ seeing him this way..." I gave a watery chuckle. "As hard as it is for me to admit," I said, and John chuckled as I quickly wiped under my eyes.

John looked up at me and stared right into my blue eyes. It was my term to try to take back my words, but it was useless. _I did it again didn't I? Showing that I care about him... _I instead resigned to silence.

John clasped a hand on my knee. "He will get better, I promise. Just leave him be for a couple of days," he smiled, and I warmed slightly. "Monica, he'll be alright again. Promise," he finished with a wink.

After a few minutes, I managed to give him a little smile of my own.

"Thank you, John," I sighed, and leant into him. He responded with a firm but comforting one-armed hug. Suddenly, a noise came from next door and we both jumped. _Sherlock. _ "Oh, and John? Please, for the love of God, _please_ don't tell Sherlock that I asked you... I don't think I could handle his smug little grin," I laughed.

John frowned and before he could ask, I stood up, stretched and turned to him. "I just... I just would just rather he didn't know... about any of," I paused, not being able to find the window- I resorted to waving my hands in the space between us, "this."

John nodded.

I opened the door, smiled at John, and stepped out into the corridor. I vaguely heard movement to my right, but absentmindedly I carried on down the hallway, only looking at the floor, and rapidly collided with a Sherlock-shaped object.

His arms snaked quickly around my waist as I wobbled, about to fall backwards. Quickly clutching his shoulder with one hand, and the back of his neck with my other, I paused to gather my bearings, before realising his face was rather close to mine. _Oh my God, keep calm Monica. _Had I moved slightly to my left and up, his beautiful lips would touch mine. _Stop thinking that! It's not going to help you!_

Without looking up at him, I could hear his breathing stop in that moment, and an audible swallow. Confused, I glanced up into his sea-green-grey eyes. They looked hazy and displaced.

Coughing slightly to break the silence, I started my apologies, "I'm sorry, Sherlock... I wasn't looking where I was going," and smiled benignly. His eyes were still fixed on me as he continued to not breathe, when I realised that my hands were clutching his shoulder and practically caressing the hair at the nape of his neck.

_Oh my fu- _I quickly pulled away, a blush appearing on my face, and waited patiently to sidestep me and continue on his way. I stared at the floor, trying not to make a fool of myself any further.

Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't get the message and was still gazing at me with wide, open eyes. Sighing, I shifted.

"Sherlock," I murmured quietly, and even from a metre away I could hear him swallow, "Sherlock, could you move so I can continue the way to my room, please?"

Finally, Sherlock manage to wake up his sense enough to hear me. Shuffling a bit to the left, he stopped staring at me and instead inspected his hands as I frowned at him, finally walking to my room.

**SHERLOCK'S POV**

His mind was going crazy. Completely out of control and as soon as her door clicked shut, Sherlock slid down to the floor cradling his head in his hands. _My heart is pounding. My eyes are tearing. My skin is burning._

Affirmative, she had touched him before; she had touched his own hands and _Oh, I do like it when she touches my hands. _Monica's were so delicate and small and soft. And of course, he had held her after her kidnapping. _And Jesus Christ she had kissed the side of his mouth. _Sherlock simultaneously baulked and lauded at the memory, that had occurred too quickly for his liking.

But his neck was a whole other sensation.

Still sitting there, Sherlock cautiously trailed a finger over the patch of skin just meeting his hairline, and shivered in excitement. The area reminded him inexplicably of memories from childhood- during his long-haired, pirate-loving childhood stage, Mycroft would dutifully comb the debris out of his curls, and whilst he'd never admit, the notion felt pleasurable. _Thank God she didn't run her fingers through my hair; otherwise there would've been a 94.7% chance that she would be pinned, by me, against that wall._

The thought wasn't helping. Trousers tighter at the thought, Sherlock quickly righted himself, stood up, and numbly, blankly, made his way to John, to safety, in John's room.

He opened the door much like he had back in Baker Street, and presently sat down in the exact spot whereupon Monica had warmed not five minutes ago.

John sighed from where he was emptying the remainder of his suitcase. "What now, Sherlock?" He chuckled, so Sherlock knew he wasn't annoyed. "Damn it, I feel like a damn therapist for you two."

Sherlock frowned, but continued, "John, I got this _feeling_."

The doctor focused back on his 'patient', finally getting worried about all the bloody feelings Sherlock had gotten as of late. He couldn't help wondering if this multitude of emotion could be healthy for someone as socially inept as his best friend.

"Yes?" John indicated for Sherlock to continue as he finished putting his things into the wardrobe.

"She touched me." John sighed again; not realising that Sherlock was having trouble trying to breath normally.

"Oh, _wow_, Sherlock, not that she does _that _all the time or anything-"

"I know but she usually only takes my hand," Sherlock interrupted, trying desperately to find words to explain the difference. His head was once again clutched in his hands, "and just now she touched my... she touched my... neck..."

John blinked a couple of times, and coughed awkward as he shoved his now empty suitcase under the bed. "I'm sure she didn't mean to-"

"That's the point, it was an accident," Sherlock whipped around to John behind him, and for all the world looked like a lost child about to burst into tears, "but it felt... nice... John..."

_This is getting serious. _"It felt... 'nice'?" John reiterated. _God, Sherlock perceiving human contact to be _nice_ is just a whole new world. _

Sherlock nodded, determined by John's response. "Yes... I liked it."

John nearly screamed in frustration. "Look, Sherlock; I don't know why you are telling me this," he sat down beside his friend, trying to be as patient and gentle as possible, "because there is nothing I can do."

Sherlock sighed and went to interrupt, but John got in before him. "_Except_ tell you, that you should tell her how you feel about her."

The Consulting Detective stared at his friend blankly, inwardly incredulous at the suggestion. He stood up and went to his room, ignoring the last thing his friend had said.

**MONICA'S POV**

The hours passed quickly and before I knew it, we were both sitting in the sofa, John and I, watching television on the couple of English channels I had. I was simply tired, and happy to be home.

Dinner tonight had been simply but nice- according to John. Of course Sherlock hadn't eaten. In fact, the man himself was sitting in my velvet arm chair by the fireplace, not too different from his own, reading a book. _Probably the one that Mrs Hudson gave him for Christmas._

"So, what are our glorious plans for tomorrow?" John asked, curious.

I sighed. "It's a shame that it's going to be bad weather; otherwise we could have gone for a walk or something."

"Well, what else is there here?" John asked casually, still watching the BBC news. I thought quickly, but ruled out many due to knowing that Sherlock would only complain. _I want him to enjoy the trip too._

Hmm.

I strolled out to the kitchen, deep in thought, for another cup of tea. As I spooned sugar into the mugs, an idea hit me. Returning to the living room, biscuit jar in tow, I asked to the both of them, "what would you think of a museum about the First and Second World Wars?"

Sherlock immediately glanced at me from over his book, interest obviously piqued. The moment I returned the gaze, he shyly dived back into his book. I frowned, but turned to watch John instead.

"That's sounds good to me- what about you, Sherlock?" He looked at the detective literally curled up by the fire, while taking a sip of his tea. We could hear a slight mumble coming from behind the tome that he was reading.

"Yes... good to me."

I smiled at Sherlock. He didn't seem to notice. _This is just getting awkward._

"The museum it is," John concluded with a smile.

* * *

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	15. PANORAMA Part I

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**So... I have to apologise again don't I? Sorry again for all the readers who asked me when it was coming, I didn't know it either.  
But Anna has been so friendly and amazing to make this chapter longer by adding the scene of the museum in it and my friend Sophie (I don't know if you know her but go check out the link on my profile to our Parentlock story) has role played this with me to make it easier.  
Exams are still busy, they end on friday and I do promise that I'll start writing on the next chapter as soon as I can friday.  
Of course I'll send it to Anna first but then you'll get it! I hope you enjoy it! **

Ivoirerose : Ze zijn nog altijd bezig, het kan ook aan mij liggen maar ze zijn verschrikkelijk moeilijk :/

KittyNyan2012 : Thank you so much for the nice review! It's really nice to hear that you love to 'slip away from reality' with this story. I am so happy you like it so much!

kcollins720 : Thank you I'll need it for the next days! And I can't describe how happy I am with the reviews!

**Thank you to all the others that reviewed/ PM-ed me! **

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 15: PANORAMA**

**SHERLOCK'S POV**

Even by Sherlock's standards, he had completed a lot of work that night.

Still curled up in Monica's velvet armchair by the now dying fire, the detective was trying to concentrate more on the laptop perched precariously on his bony lap, and not the lingering perfume that clung to the cushions. The scent made Sherlock's head spin and his stomach erupt into butterflies.

_Argh- the sensation is irritating._

His fingers were steepled in their customary position under his chin, as he stared a hole into the wall opposite. Sherlock was balancing his laptop primarily on his left knee, and he quickly checked the clock in the bottom right-hand corner. _3am isn't that late._

It then suddenly occurred to him that John and... _her... _had gone to bed more than five hours ago. Sherlock shrugged internally to himself, and awakened the screen to illuminate his prone figure. _Not too late to be searching around on the internet, in any case. _Four tabs were open on Sherlock's Mac, ascending in order of importance.

**_How to compliment a woman?_** _Diagnosis: very interesting, _Sherlock thought. _Very useful._

**_How to let someone know you have feelings for them? _**_Diagnosis: disappointing. More for teenagers without basic grasp of the English language, _Sherlock scoffed.

**_The female body. _**_Diagnosis: well. _Sherlock's reaction to this page had surprised even himself. _Yes, very useful, very... ahem, useful. _The detective's endeavours with female cadavers at St Bart's morgue had placed him in familiarity with female anatomy, but the detail of which the specific site explored had caused him to cross his legs and loosen his already slack collar... much to his confusion and chagrin._ Still, might come in handy._

**_Youtube: how to kiss a woman. _**_Diagnosis: unnecessary, and waste of four minutes and fifty two seconds. _Sherlock had frowned throughout the whole video, and eventually had to look away and stop the video.

**_Define:love. _**_Diagnosis: surprisingly accurate. The revelation was hurtful, in a strange, melancholy way._

Another tab was open after the initial five, in a separate window. This one contained Sherlock's Google mail account; given that not five hours ago, he had received a cryptic text message from DI Lestrade. He read it again on his phone beside him; not to make sure he understood, but for clarity that he had received it; Sherlock often found that his diverted attentions meant he imagined certain things.

_SPECIAL CASE. READ MORE IN EMAIL. – L_

He switched tabs, resolving to return to the 'Monica experiment' when his mind palace was functioning. A shudder thudded out from above Sherlock's head, and quickly cranked it back to look up at the ceiling. _John must've dropped his phone from under his pillow, _again... _irritating nonetheless._

Sighing slightly, Sherlock diligently tried to not let his thoughts stray too near the woman whose presence burrowed into his very skin, and whose spirit clung to what he would describe as his soul. He scoffed. _If you even have one. You are a machine. _But it almost exasperated the detective to know that this analogy was the closest to how he felt.

The screen flickered in brightness as he switched to the tab withholding his emails, and re-evaluated the message of which the Met's Detective Inspector had sent. He wrapped his luxurious navy silk dressing gown tighter around his admittedly wiry form- Monica was always asking him to eat more, not that he would- and rested his chin back on his fingers whilst skimming the text onscreen.

_Something about Scotland Yard getting a tip off... that the cruise ship _PANORAMA_ would... sink... apparently on the _fifth_ day after her departure... quite a few people predicted to be killed in suspect-looking scenarios... Lestrade's saying I should take a look..._

Sherlock immediately catalogued the interest this case was generating for him personally. He sighed- _at least a seven, possibly an eight.., unfortunately- _and continued reading.

_'The ship will arrive in Belgium tomorrow, Sherlock. I've taken the liberty of already booking two tickets under the names _Mr Alexander Walker_ and _Mr/Miss Jhennes,_ depends on who you want to take._'

Sherlock had to smirk; this ship wasn't just a normal cruise ship; it was a cruise ship designed for couples, married, engaged or otherwise. Of all ages, sexualities and genders. Despite the fact that the case could measure reasonably high (a score that would stimulate the young detective into actually leaving 221B Baker Street and venture into the wildness that was the rest of civilisation), Sherlock found himself loathe to cut the current holiday short. _Monica will be upset... but she will understand. Hopefully. _And besides, Sherlock had an ingrain, lost-lasting interest in ships of all uses, especially coupled with the certain aspect of a mass murder about to happen, albeit by sinking.

Now there was _one _problem. If Sherlock took the case, he would have to pretend he is this... 'Alexander Walker'... that in itself wasn't the main issue. What was, was that he had to find, or rather- _choose, _the 'Jhennes' persona. Choose who he wanted to take as his partner.

He knew very well that whilst the cruise ship would be comfortable with him posing as either hetero- or homosexual, they may find the trio, as a threesome, rather conspicuous.

A shadow slowly crept along the opposite wall as a car drove past on the quiet avenue, bathing the room in an orange glow, and Sherlock was thinking hard. He couldn't go without a partner- that was just as suspect, and Lestrade made certain of it with the double reservation. _So, _the detective thought, slumping in his chair, _I need to choose from either Monica or John._

Logically, the conundrum appeared to have a simple solution- Sherlock would take John. _John wouldn't mind posing as a homosexual couple- it's for the case, after all. _Besides, the detective thought, so many people had accused them as being romantically involved, that the preposition hardly seemed a huge leap of difference.

Sherlock was satisfied with his decision, but try as he might, the niggling thought tucked away in an unassuming corner of his brain would stop attacking his albeit underdeveloped conscience. The whole idea strangely struck him as... well, _wrong. _And this thought, this irritating, persistently present notion that was undermining his plan, was one simple thing.

The Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes, had calculated twenty minutes and twenty-eight seconds ago, that he was in _love. _ And not, as every other idiot had suspected, with his partner-in-crime-not-crime-but-cases, John Hamish Watson.

It was the blonde, shiny-eyed, Dutch woman, from Ypres, who moved into 221C Baker Street exactly one month, fifteen days, eighteen hours and fifty-eight seconds ago. Unsuprisingly, yet surprising to the young man himself, Sherlock had her arrival down to science. The whirlwind that she had brought with her had made him question everything he knew... about himself, about life at Baker Street, and about how the world functioned. Without this feeling, that burnt like a stoked fire within his chest gave everything _life_, he was certain that his world would suddenly become grey and _boring._

_But that didn't mean that the experience was entirely comfortable._

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, and slammed his laptop shut, all but threw it to the rug as the hearth coughed out the last few splutters of the dying fire. He was furious, irritated and even ashamed at himself for having this emotion. It made his skin crawl, and want to pull his hair out by the roots... to know that the feeling was not too entirely unpleasant. _That _was what scared the detective.

He looked at the antique clock precariously balanced on the mantelpiece- _I really should move that; Monica would be upset lest it fall and break- _and read the time. Quickly calculating with a barely suppressed groan, Sherlock realised that in less than four hours, she would wake up.

And in less than four hours, and thirty minutes, she would exit her bedroom, with her hair resembling a sparrow's nest, with her too-baggy cardigan barely concealing her stained pyjama top and shorts that were the right shade of scarlet to draw the startling hue of her heaven-blue eyes. All the while, he would try not to stare as her long, soft, delicate fingers tried to tie back the tangled tresses with a staple black hairband, which so well matched her conservative wardrobe.

Monica would then complain that she was cold, berate the ancient central heating for not working as she had programmed, and casually yet shyly, _endearingly,_ beg Sherlock to lend her one of his beloved dressing gowns. The detective, sly yet learning to be coy, would say, "only as long as I get back," and she would giggle and smile. Sherlock would only return the smile when she wasn't looking.

And John was right- it was unfair for Sherlock have behaved to her harshly- practically ignoring her and otherwise only then rarely speaking to her in short, clipped tones- for the last fourteen days and five hours.

Sherlock sighed, and picked up his laptop from the floor, and carefully placed it upon the coffee table. _John has taken to guarding his possessions more religiously- I ought to consider mine with more care than he thinks I give. _He leaned back, and closed his eyes.

His mind raced, through the Mind Palace searching for a distraction. Inevitably, and the detective couldn't claimed that he was shocked, his thoughts came across the shining, radiantly bright room that was his housemate. He stepped inside resignedly, and felt the calm flood him in this wonderful, wonderful room filled with _her._

Sherlock smiled, as he steadily drifted to sleep.

**MONICA'S POV**

My alarm shrilly woke me at seven, and after slamming a still-clenched fist on the 'OFF' button, I closed my eyes with a contented sigh.

Slipping in and out of my doze for thirty more minutes thereafter, I sat and stretched my long limbs- joints cracking and popping delightfully, and slowly padded across my bedroom, unusually leaving my bed unmade, and snagged a black hairband from my dressing table as I passed. Hair tie safely around my wrist, I further snatched my ropey cardigan from the back of my door, and slipped it on as I yawned.

I eventually shuffled downstairs to the supply of coffee, and absent-mindedly noticed the less-than-presentable state my pyjamas were in. Red and wrinkled, I tried to smooth them out as I reached the hallway and crept my way past the open living room door, as not to creak a floorboard and wake the two boys upstairs.

_Wait... hang on..._

I retreated back to the living room doorway, and found my eyes had not deceived me- Sherlock was indeed slumped in the huge armchair beside a now cold fireplace, and snored softly. A shiver ran through him and he shifted slightly. _Good; it isn't just me that finds it cold in the morning._

But I looked closer at the man, and had a number of questions. _Why would he sleep in the living room? What was he doing? And even, why was he _actually_ sleeping? _Despite living in practically the same place as the detective, I had never truly seen him sleep before. He looked slightly uncomfortable, but oddly endearing. Not in a childlike way, not innocent... but..._vulnerable_. Probably the one quality Sherlock would wish to hide permanently.

_He _cannot _be comfortable like that. _He was still wearing his grey shirt and black trousers, with his black socks, but also yet his wonderfully luxurious blue dressing gown curled around his wiry frame.

_Eurgh, I could do with that dressing gown right now. _I peered closer from my position in the hallway. _Is he actually wearing it or could I just... _Stepping towards him, I bent forward to see if he truly was wearing the gown, or if I could slip it from under his body. As silently as possible, I observed that as I touched his shoulder lightly, his breath was incredibly slow, deep and oddly arresting. _Monica, focus! If you can take it now, he won't notice..._

"You could just ask me to lend it, you know," came a suddenly deep voice from the shadowy lump before me, and I jumped in surprise with a strangled yelp. As I tried to swallow my racing heart now lodged in my throat, I noticed that Sherlock had his eyes still closed, and I was breathing faster.

"Christ Almighty, Sherlock!" I said as I panted rather unabashedly. "You bloody scared me-" _you little shit_. "I thought you were asleep!" To drive home my point, I poked him just underneath his chest, three inches away from his belly button, simply to tease him for scaring me.

His body convulsed slightly at the sharp intrusion, and his beautifully wide and clear eyes, albeit slightly marred with sleep dust and fogginess, flew open. He pushed himself up using the armchair to straighten his posture, and quickly slipped off the silk dressing gown- handing it to me without another word yet a slight curve of his perfect lips. I felt my cheeks burn faintly.

"Thank you, I guess," I murmured as I shrugged it on, inhaling Sherlock's heady scent inconspicuously. It was still warm; this oddly stunned me in a way that was not altogether too undesirable- my stomach clenched pleasantly, along with other regional muscles. _Great. Now my cheeks are _really _burning._

He looked up, and started to say something; however, his words erringly jumbled in their rush to escape, and Sherlock had to shake his head to clear them. Trying again, he appeared faintly embarrassed; "Urrhm... no... problem, no problem."

Floorboards creaked as John descended the stairs all of a sudden, and Sherlock's and my head whipped around at the noise. I felt a burst of excitement hit me as I hurried out to make coffee and toast.

_We were going to the museum today, in just a few short hours!_

_ ..._

Even by my own standards, the day had been a success. As John promised, and I suspected, the army doctor was incredibly fascinated by the wartime memorabilia that the museum showed on its walls and in its galleries. In his defence, the day _had _been interesting.

However, one noticeable change came about in the behaviour of the third member of our party- Sherlock Holmes. The man had changed into a pale blue shirt, which made his eyes shine almost ethereally, and despite wearing his ever present long black coat, he looked more relaxed and settled as I had ever seen him.

_Almost too relaxed. _I had to admit, and I knew John reckoned the same, that the detective was being a little _too _unlike himself. He was joking, smiling vividly all the time, and refraining from correcting the rookie tour guide- with facts that even I had realised had been incorrect. All of this 'charade' was kinda... forced.

_It's not as if it matters that much, Monica. The guy will be back to his sarcastic, intelligent and infuriatingly gorgeous self in no time. Well, the gorgeous part never leaves. _Oh yes, brain, you're making it a hundred times better.

We were sat in the café just short of the museum's exit, off the parquet floored foyer. John had his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, I was halfway through a frankly putrid ham sandwich, and Sherlock was, as ever, reclining in the spindly chair, currently not hungry.

"I ate heartily enough last night- your ratatouille was, admittedly, rather... adequate," Sherlock finished lamely, but given his slight blush- he _really_ must un-used to giving praise to anyone- and the fact that he quickly adverted his gaze, I knew that he had just given a compliment. I smiled in response, and the corners of his mouth tweaked up slightly.

John chuckled. Giving up on the soggy, lank excuse for a sandwich in front of me, I pushed my plate away as a shrill ringing filled the café. Many other customers turned around to face us with a titter of tutting, as John rapidly patted his coat and jeans, to extract his slim albeit scratched mobile from his Barbour pocket. He gave his excuses as he nimbly jogged out to the entrance to take the call. I didn't see the caller ID, but from his expression, I assumed it must be important. _Sarah, maybe... or even his sister? What was she called? Hallie? Harley?_

"**Must be Sarah**. Harry only ever rings for favours, and John would have ignored it," Sherlock answered my eerily unspoken question; the bloke was telepathic, "so unless it's an emergency- which I doubt, Harry's apparently been sober for eight months- **it must be someone else."**

_Sarah it is. _"Fair enough- I hope everything's okay," I said quietly as the waitress came over for our plates. She eyed my half eaten lump of soggy grey, and gave me a dirty look. However, I prided myself on the fact that my return glare would've burnt through her obvious contact lenses. _Christ, since when had I become Sherlock?!_

Nonetheless, I sensed footsteps approaching rapidly behind me- I hated sitting with my back to the exit, and my hand kept slipping to the crook of my armpit under my jacket where I used to strap my holster... _Old habits die hard_, and Sherlock continued to smirk quite... gently... every time I did so. Almost as if he knew why I did it; the fact that I had a twitch of checking ever since that night I was almost dead on the streets of Ypres, and the fact that it unsettled me each time to remember my handgun was not strapped to my side under my coat.

"Monica- do you reckon we can quickly go home? I need to get on my laptop pretty sharpish," John's voice came from my top left, and my head swivelled to see him as Sherlock sat forward to listen intently. His eyebrows, I could see in my peripheral vision, were furrowed deliciously, and not for the first time I felt the urge to somewhat inelegantly... _How do you say it? 'Jump his bones?'_

I returned back to the world. "No problem, John. But... why?"

"Yeah... I, just... need to get back," John replied, fidgeting a little and shifting his phone from hand to hand. I looked to Sherlock with a raised eyebrow as he stood abruptly. I followed suit.

"I will make my own way back. I need to sort out a few loose ends in the city centre," the detective said, tightening his coat around himself and gazing down at me- we were barely inches apart, and I stepped back slightly. Chagrin appeared momentarily on Sherlock's face, before he continued. "I'll be back within the hour."

_Hmmm. Strange that he hasn't mentioned this before_. But the man suddenly looked determined, as if he was bracing himself up to do something... I unexpectedly wanted to quickly hug him, and wish him luck, but I felt it wasn't the occasion or the time right now.

"Right okay, you have my address," I said as I picked up my bag. I placed my palm over the top of his beautiful hand, and his face blanched. Carrying on as John started towards the exit again, "I'll see you later. Be... be _careful_," I warned, hoping he'd catch my meaning.

As we walked out and left Sherlock momentarily fixated to the floor back in the café, I had a feeling that he'd understood my warning better than I thought... better than, I think, I realised at the time. I followed John out on the parade, and hailed a taxi in the pouring rain.

**SHERLOCK'S POV**

_Get it together, Holmes._

Sherlock quickly strode across the grimy, sticky lino floor out on the better parquet floor of the lobby. Heels clacking on the marble, he wound his way out of the revolving door, and faced the street.

Pulling his iPhone out of his coat pocket, he doubled checked two things- the time, and the location of the establishment he quickly needed to visit, but hadn't found the right opening all day.

_The museum was excellent, and so was she, _the detective remembered fondly, as Monica stood comfortable, warm and steadfast beside him during the guide's lecture. John was riveted, but Monica's attention wandered, and every now and then, she would catch him staring unintentionally at her. Before he could catch himself, he smiled back at her. _I've been doing that all day- she'll think something's amiss soon._

Smiling at the memory, and then at the conformation of Google Maps loaded on his mobile, Sherlock stowed it away in his pocket, flipped up his collar, and leapt down the steps to the wet, wet pavement below.

Hopefully, he would get what he needed. He needed it desperately; it seemed the only solution, and a frankly genius one at that. Sherlock beamed- he didn't know it, but he was heading in the opposite direction to which Monica headed, but equally didn't realise that it would bring them together soon, in an entirely different way.

**MONICA'S POV**

_Sherlock was correct- as ever. _The phonecall had been from Sarah Sawyer.

John, as requested, arrived back at mine to go onto his laptop. What I _didn't _expect was his roundabout way of explaining that his semi-girlfriend-colleague-friend had had an accident resulting in a broken leg, and an arm to match. Immediately, John had decided he needed to go to her, like the gentleman he was, and it accumulated in my buying him a quick-flight ticket online as he packed his suitcase, and calling a taxi into which he promptly clambered, with a quick kiss and a promise to call when he left, and landed.

Like John always did, he kept his promise. "She'll be alright John, I swear. You're coming now, in any case," I said in a light tone, to a panicking ex-army doctor on the other end of the line. Making tea one-handedly, I heard the front door open, and Sherlock's usual grunt of a greeting made its way to me in the kitchen.

As the detective's footsteps receded upstairs, John replied, "I know, I'm just worried." He sighed. "Right, they're boarding now, honey. I'll call in about four hours or so, but I can't promise anything. I'll call you from the hospital, by-" and he was cut off as I heard him jog to the flight desk.

Sighing, I poured myself milk into my tea- _I'd better make one for Sherlock I suppose- _and brought the two steaming mugs into the living room. The detective reappeared just as I flicked on BBC1 to the British News.

"Eurgh, dull," Sherlock stated as he flopped down into his customary armchair that I allowed him to commandeer. He suddenly started, however, and gazed around, before looking back to me. "Where's John?" he asked, bewildered.

I gasped slightly, "Sherl-... _Sherlock, he bloody rang you!"_ I said, exasperated. "He _called_ you to tell he was leaving for England ahead of us?" The detective continued to look confused as I explained, "Sarah's had an accident, and he's gone to her."

"Oh," he said, sitting back with his tea. "Goodbye, then John. Sorry, must've deleted the conversation, I was in the middle of doing someth-"

"You do realise he can't actually _hear _you? That he's a good few miles above us, right now?"

Sherlock shrugged, and opened the paper that was resting on the arm of the chair. His curls fell over his eyes slightly, and I smiled fondly.

_I literally never know what's going with this guy. I never know what he's thinking. _But to be fair to Sherlock, he hadn't attempted to do any experiments in my house..._ just yet. You've been here two days, Monica. You're here for another five. Give him time, and I'm sure he won't disappoint. _Pity, I was getting used to the smell of home without the acrid customary tinge of sulphur along with it.

Standing up and padding out to the kitchen in stockinged feet, I slid my mobile onto the counter, opened the fridge to pour myself a glass of juice as I grabbed an apple from the breakfast table.

"The least you could've done is wished him a safe journey," I accused around a mouthful of apple, before treading back to the sofa with my juice, turning off the television and opening my abandoned book lying next to me. Sherlock huffed from behind his broadsheet, and I decidedly ignored the derisive tone.

Sherlock suddenly folded his news paper, and leapt up. "I need your phone, Monica," he announced as he strode out the counter in the kitchen, where I had put it.

I sighed, used to Sherlock's habits of not respecting John's and my privacy- he wasn't aware of certain norms in society, I quickly found out. It was impossible to have secrets from the detective anyway, so I figured that him gaining access to my phone wasn't too much of a big deal. Until he came in, staring at my phone screen.

"What does John mean, Monica?" he asked bizarrely, and I grunted in a tone that suggested my confusion.

Sherlock held out my phone so I could see the screen.

**_Maybe whilst I'm not there, it would be a great time to tell_****_Sherlock, Mon.  
-John x_**

My mobile had been on silent from being in the museum, and I wasn't aware of John's message.

_Shit._

"Uhh-" I began, but Sherlock cut me off sharp.

"What is he talking about? Tell me what, exactly?" Sherlock interrogated and stepped closely to me. I nearly flinched as the menace in the action, and whilst I knew Sherlock wouldn't ever hurt me, I flew out from under his scrutiny, and stalked back to the kitchen, the detective hot on my tail. "Monica! _Answer me!_ Tell me _what?"_

"Nothing," I answered too quickly, and I opened the fridge again to avoid him seeing my blazing red face.

Sherlock inhaled shakily, I noted with a start. I looked up at him hovering over me, to a soft gaze and relaxed shoulders. "Monica," he spoke softly, "please... tell me."

My eyes widened at his tone and his concession to using the word 'please', but alarm bells began ringing in my brain, warning me not to fall for his trick. _But is it actually a trick? You could tell him... that you, Monica Smith, are in love with Sherlock Bigheaded-prick-face Holmes._

No.

No.

No.

...No.

"I said to John that I wouldn't, Sherlock," I sighed, "I'm sorry." I tried to sidestep the taller man in order to escape to my room, but he blocked me slyly. A twinkle crept into his beautiful eyes as he said decisively, "I'll work it out eventually, you know."

_Yeah; good luck, kiddo. _I snorted, that said as much. Sherlock bristled at my distain of the comment, and proclaimed proudly, "_I _am Sherlock Holmes."

"Congratulations, my name is Monica Smith," I retorted sharply, and eventually passed him to go into the living room. However, it seemed we had moved out of the immediate danger zone, so I leant on the arm of my armchair, which Sherlock had vacated mere moments ago. Said detective followed me back with a casual, almost cocky stroll- hands in pockets, hair artfully tousled and his stance cocksure as he smiled smugly with the handsome face he sported.

"Well, I guess we can all praise the Lord you remember your own surname," he muttered sarcastically, and it struck me that the words didn't quite match his demeanour... _but what he mean, my 'own surname'? What does my _surname_ have to do with anything?_

To mask my puzzlement, I swigged from the apple juice I had left on the coffee table, gratefully for the liquid that freshened the suddenly dry mouth I was experiencing.

All of a sudden, Sherlock had taken a few more steps towards me; still looming over me, yet close enough that I heard him swallow. We locked eyes and I frowned. _What the-_

"Put the drink down, Monica," Sherlock demanded, his eyes blazing.

_Ex-fucking-cuse me, darlin'? Nuh-uh, you ain't comin' 'tween me and ma juice._

I chuckled, and started ranting, "And why, pray tell, should I? God, has it got to the point where my _drinking_ bothers you? Because if so, Sherlock, I can tell you were you ought to stuff your fu-"

"I have something for you."

..._Did not expect that. Interesting._

"...Really?" I asked deadpan.

He nodded. "But only if you put the juice down."

Against my better judgement, I cautiously replaced my half-drunk juice to the coaster on the coffee table, and reclined in the armchair, awaiting further explanation. When nothing was forthcoming, I prompted, "So...?"

Sherlock inhaled sharply. And exhaled just as forcibly.

And suddenly knelt to the floor one angular, gorgeous knee.

And reached into his pocket.

And pulled out a box.

And opened the box...

... to reveal a ring. A sapphire ring.

_Holy sh-_

I looked back at him, with an expression that probably angled between _shitting myself what the fuck _Roadand a sharp left turn down _what the hell is happening, is this even real what the fuck_Avenue.

"Sh-_Sherlock?" _I gasped. "What the _hell _are you _doing?" _My voice couldn't rise above a whisper, either from shock or a curious anticipation.

The detective raised an elegant eyebrow.

"Proposing. Why, what else does it look like?"

* * *

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	16. PANORAMA Part II

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**Thank you all for the nice reviews, as some of you might have read I had exams which are now over... and well it wasn't that good.  
So I had a bit of a hard time with that, but anyways sorry again. Gosh you must all hate me haha :).  
I hope you enjoy this chapter, since it's my first case that I made up myself it's a bit difficult to write but I hope you will like it!**

**Reading Addicted : **When you are in England and you hear English words ect. (as someone from Belgium) you automatically take over some English words because the people around you use them, I do that too and it's pretty funny because it doesn't sound that well coming from a person who doesn't speak English as their first language. So... yeah haha :)

**Have a nice day! **

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 16: PANORAMA Part II**

**_"Sh-Sherlock?" I gasped. "What the hell are you doing?" My voice couldn't rise above a whisper, either from shock or a curious anticipation._**

**_The detective raised an elegant eyebrow._**

**_"Proposing. Why, what else does it look like?"_**

I was vaguely aware that my mouth was incredibly dry, and all I could do was stare at Sherlock in utter bewilderment. From where I was perched on the edge of my armchair, my body was frozen, and I could hear the blood roaring in my ears as I gazed into his beautifully clear, crystalline eyes.

_Please, please, _please_ someone pinch me. _My thoughts raced manically in confusion and blindly in astonishment, my mouth eventually managed to open and close like a floundering fish, but no sound emerged. A raspy gurgle instead bubbled up my throat.

"Arghurgh..."

I chose to close my mouth and remain silent. That seemed wisest. _And safest, Monica. The man is, as you suspected, evidently deranged._

However, the response wasn't what Sherlock wanted. Or expected, I assumed; he shuffled uncomfortably from his kneeling position on the ground, and enquired softly, "...Monica?"

I still stared. _This is all just a dream. _I blinked. _Just a dream._

And I still had no clue what to say. All I could do, literally, was stare at him. _Why the hell had he asked me? _My mind was still whirring, and it occurred to me that the reason why the detective had propose was _not _because, as my heart hoped, that he was in love with me... but because he had an ulterior motive.

_Beautiful kick to the self-esteem, sir; congratulations._

"Monica?" Sherlock tried again, this time with his brow furrowed in confusion, and teeth worrying his beautiful bottom lip. "Answer me please."

I shook my head to clear my thoughts, and I was aware that Sherlock straightened with a sigh out of his knelt prose on my oak floorboards, and perched instead on the coffee table.

Leaning forward, he murmured intimately to me, "Monica... It's... It's for a case." The words escaped his mouth with what seemed to be relief, and in turn my heart crumbled just as easily.

_"It's for a case."_

Oh.

_Game, set, match._

Now it makes sense.

_No it doesn't._

Why doesn't it?

_What case on God's Earth could warrant you two getting married?_

...Inner-me had a point.

Whilst conducting my internal monologue, Sherlock had gone beyond the realm of impatient, and actually appeared concerned. To the point where he actually reached out, cradled my face, and looked at me square in the eyes. His entire face was etched in worry, and it numbly occurred to me that he was actually anxious over my reaction.

_His hands are really cool. _The lower temperature gave me goosebumps, and inappropriately made me thing of _where else_ the man could put his hands.

_Christ, Monica! Time and place!_

"Monica? Please, did I say something wrong?" he rambled, "John tells me when I've done something wrong. Is the ring wrong? I was unsure as to whether you would like the sapphire or the diamond. I deduced that a sapphire was inlaid in your great-grandmother's ring, but you do like your own mother's, which is diamond. So I don't understand why that would be a problem." Sherlock leapt up, and paced.

"Did I ask wrong? I am sure you meant to propose marriage upon one knee," he raked his elegant hands through his curls, causing them to appear springy and wild. "Was I meant to make a speech? I researched and the websites said-"

"What was the point of this, Sherlock?" I managed. I was growing angry, my fists shaking, and my voice was barely level. "What. Was. The. _Point."_

Sherlock stopped, and stared at me in shock. He then closed his eyes, inhaled, and his shoulders dropped. When he returned to look at me, his empathetic gaze had disappeared, and he regarded me coolly with a horrible, derisive sneer.

"I need to be married for a case Lestrade recently sent me," he replied, and he continued pacing with his hands clasped behind his back. It came to mind that his tone sounded slightly dejected- of course, I hadn't said yes.

I shifted. "Well, what a _shame_ John has just left," I bit out, standing and wandering nonchalantly into the kitchen.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side as he watched me pass him, before following me, apparently confused. A minute later, as I leant against the countertop, he asked, "Will you do it?".

_Anger. "_And what, pray tell, will I get out of it?" I spun around, gesturing at nothing in particular, "T-the chance to... _stand_ next to you?! The _chance _to appear as if I'm _with you?! _The bloody pleasure of pretending that I'm in a relationship with the Great Sherlock Holmes?!"I knew I was screeching, but I found satisfaction in the minute flinches Sherlock took

I continued, albeit in a calmer manner. "I'm here now, Sherlock... in my home. We arrived just three days ago, and this holiday- you _promised_- was gonna be without any cases..." I trailed off, knowing I'd lost the fight before it even before.

"So... we're just going to let a mass murderer go free?" he raised an eyebrow.

..._Damn it._

I sighed. "When do we start?

Sherlock smiled smugly, and strode over to my recently vacated armchair. He seemed to favour it. "We leave in one hour; I took the liberty of booking the taxi and Lestrade took care of the rest," he said, his voice back to the cold dulcet tone that was his norm, "we will arrive at the docks hopefully within the hour, all that's left for you to do is pack, Monica."

"I'm sorry- what _exactly _are we doing?"

The man sat opposite to me smirked. "It's a cruise ship, designed for couples in mind, bound for Cairo, Egypt." Closing his eyes, Sherlock leaned back and steepled his fingers under his chin in apparent concentration. "But don't worry; it will never make it to Cairo... not if we are there in time to stop it."

_Huh? "_ 'Stop' what?"

"There are rumours that the ship will sink precisely the fifth day of its departure. My task, and yours if you decide to accompany me, Monica, is to discover who the culprit on the ship is, and arrest him."

_Right... _"...And we leave in one hour?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe. Every time I attempted to grasp understanding of the situation, it slipped again.

"Yes," Sherlock huffed, "was it _really_ so hard to understand that?" he questioned with a disappointed sigh.

_Alright, shut up... little arrogant shit. _My retorting glare translated my sentiments down to a tee.

"Fine," I acquiesced. "Give me the blasted ring, then," and I held out my hand in expectation, and walked determinedly towards Sherlock. He grinned, reached into his pocket to pull out the small velvet box, of which he pressed excitedly into my hand, before relaxing against into his former prone position.

Upon opening it, and examining the item in much closer detail, it stung my heart to admit that Sherlock had picked the perfect ring. It was absolutely mesmerising- a substantial sapphire- the blue not of my own eyes, but of darkest oceans- was set in the centre on a gold band, and was circled by twelve small diamonds. It was rustic, vintage, and heart-wrenchingly romantic.

I sighed a little as I pulled the ring out and closed the lid. At the sound, Sherlock quickly glanced over to me with a worried expression. Remembering his earlier preoccupation with my dissatisfaction with the ring, I smiled at him reassuringly.

"You know, you could've made this a bit more romantic," I teased as I slid the ring onto my fourth left-hand finger. _Perfect fit- of course._

"What on Earth do you mean?"

"Well, the whole thing is a little... _merh."_

It appeared that Sherlock's eyebrows couldn't reach any higher, for his eyes simply widened as he replied, "...'_merh'?"_

"It all just stinks of a sneaky business deal, darling," I jested, and winked at him. Holding my hand up so the light caught the gems, "hardly a romantic, heartfelt situation on your part, is it?"

Sherlock didn't laugh. In fact, he looked rather dejected, again. "I'll remember that, the next time I propose to you."

It was my time to laugh, and whilst the barb was surely meant to sting, the man didn't seem to have the heart to put any bite in the insult. Instead, I took it as a joke. _Try and liven the scene up, Monica- atta girl._

It only really occurred to me what he said, when I trudged upstairs to pack my meagre belongings. _The next time, _he had said.

I spun around, and remembered his expression. _Dejected_- _was he _actually_ upset by my comment? _

..._Shit._

...

One thing that Sherlock _had _neglected to mention was the sheer impressiveness of the ship. And by hell, was I amazed. The lounge alone was the size of a small ballroom, with gold relief appliqué ceilings, swooping parquet floors and a colossal empire chandelier.

I began to feel guilty considering how much the tickets must have set back my boss, and Scotland Yard; but considering that said boss Lestrade had in fact interrupted my holiday- _my _annual leave to recover from the Chinese-dragon-mad-lady-General-Shan incident- to bring me this wonderful case as compensation.

_Sherlock might be happy, but God knows I'm bloody annoyed. _Sherlock could definitely read my antagonism, but was either choosing to ignore it in favour of more challenging mental stimulation, _or_ he was enjoying my resentment as much as the prospect of an attempted mass murder on board a vessel... possibly worth more than the entire British Royal Family.

The detective, at ease with the lavish surroundings, brought me back to Earth- _or sea, who knows- _by placing a firm hand upon the small of my back, and walking me to the centre of the lounge to the main desk. The goosebumps from the contact were still present by the time he had requested our cabin.

"Room under Walker, please," he asked politely and smoothly; sounding for all the world as if he was the most pleasant, charming bugger under the Sun. _Smarmy git._

He had already explained to me during our short taxi ride to the dock that the most I needed to do was act comfortable enough around Sherlock make us appear like a real, in-love couple._Funny how the idea doesn't sound as nauseating as it should._

I silently considered our options as the concierge checked us in. _Holding hands was doable, and actually being nice to each other was one thing... but kissing? _The man hadn't even blushed when he explained the requirements of our little facade, but he did break my gaze and stare out the window instead.

For a man who chose to interact with the rest of humanity with as little frequency as possible, I didn't know how he could suggest the act as calmly as he did.

"Here you are, sir, ma'am," the concierge offered, breaking my anxious train of thought, "cabin 69," the young man finished with a slight, infantile smirk. "The cabin is infamous sir, if you'll pardon the name we gave it... it... leaves very little to the imagination."

_Brilliant, _I sighed. _Glad to see the powers that be are fighting with me tonight._

Sherlock, for all his intelligence, decided to naively ask further. "Which is...?" he asked, brow furrowed.

The teenager behind the desk leaned into us over the counter, and answered with a conspiratorial whisper, "the Babymaker, sir."

I groaned.

The concierge continued, with a giggle, "we received many great reviews about that particular room... a lot of people liked it there. A lot." The boy then smiled benignly.

Sherlock, on the other hand, simply rolled his eyes, and slid the key off the surface and into his coat pocket. "Thank you kindly; we'll make great use of it, I'm sure."

"Certainly, sir. I'll have the bellhop bring your bags to you right away," he answered, back to his proper etiquette. He tipped his hat to me, "ma'am."

Sherlock led me away, and it took all my willpower to not sock him on the jaw right there and then. _'We'll make great use of it'?! Christ Almighty..._

I shook my head. This whole new persona, of the consulting detective I was convinced I knew and understand- _at least to a certain degree- _was knocking me for six. Mouth still open, we exited the lounge and strolled into a plush, velvet-carpeted, oak-panelled corridor. A bellhop was standing ceremoniously with what I recognised to be our meagre three suitcases, and an attendant was also patiently waiting to show us to our room.

"Room 69, I believe sir. Fortunately, it is on this floor, and only around the corner," the attendant smiled. "Follow me, if you please." And he paced reasonably past us, with us being followed in turn by the bellhop.

_Oh God, what have I let myself in for?_

We arrived at the 'Babymaker Room', at which Sherlock removed our bags from the trolley, extracted two twenty-pound notes apiece for the two attendants, and unlocked our door as they departed. The brass plaque reading 'SIXTY-NINE' taunted me as the door swung open.

The room was beautiful, that much I could decipher. But given my mutual anger and irritation with my so-called 'man', who smirked in the corner, the details escaped me.

After five or so minutes of tense, aggravated silence, "Do you even _know_ how to manufacture a child?" _There, I said it. And truth be told, I only asked what the entirety of Scotland Yard, and 221 Baker Street, were wondering._

Sherlock, from where he was still slumped on the plush lounger in the living area, looked up. His face was surprisingly blank as he responded, "Sex doesn't alarm me, Monica."

I scoffed under my breath as he returned his concentration to his mobile phone. _Sure it doesn't, honey. And pigs can fly._

Wandering around aimlessly, I spied the king-size bed through the archway leading off the lounge. It looked heavenly soft, and all I wanted to do was sink into its fluffy pillows and downy blankets.

Sherlock followed my gaze, and smiled knowingly. "It does look nice," he admitted, whilst simultaneously standing, striding over to the aforementioned perfect bed, and collapsing upon it. "Soft, too," he confessed from his prone position upon the mattress. His smirk gave away his innocent composure.

_He's teasing me... but why? Why is he teasing me? Since _when _has he decided he needs to start teasing me?_

I swallowed. "Yes... I suspect it probably is," I replied, as I looked down at my hands, entwined together.

"Might as well stay here... and let the ship sink," he said, tracing a finger on the duvet. The motion was strangely erotic, and for the life of me, I couldn't understand why.

_Oh c'mon, Monica. The guy's just being cheesy!_

"Yes," I replied, nonetheless. "Much easier." I couldn't understand what the hell had happened to my friend, but when he clambered gracefully off the bed, and quite literally _prowled _towards me, I found myself frozen.

He came within inches of my body, and curved his own down slightly. _This is getting _weird_. _Sherlock gazed down at me with his gorgeous, crystalline eyes, and the teasing, cheeky nature instantly drained out of him. I could see it as his shoulders slumped slightly, and his fingers rose up to my jawbone, where they traced the swell of my lips. _If I leant forward slightly, I could kiss him._

Sherlock seemed to have the same idea, because his other hand crept up to cradle my face. Looking at him dumbfounded, I was shocked by his expression- it was strangely blank, his brows level and his eyes cool, but they looked slightly drunk. His beautiful mouth was slightly open, and as he exhaled, I suddenly craved to share that air with him.

He leaned in, those lips a hair's breadth away from mine.

_Wait... What the hell am I doing?! This is Sherlock bloody Holmes!_

I leant away.

_Goddamnit, Monica!_

Sherlock appeared slightly bedraggled and starstruck, even, as my heart did a little flip at the thought, a little _disappointed._

Clearing my throat and folding my arms, I tried to regain my composure. "No. We, uh," I coughed again, "We have to rescue... them, the people."

Sherlock still looked completely dazed as I strolled past him, out of the bedroom. "Y-yes," I heard him manage. "Q-quite." He inhaled, straightened his shoulders and tugged his jacket back down to a smoother position.

Perching on the sofa, desperate to move the conversation along, I asked, "So, what do we do now?"

"Meet some people."

"Like... who?"

Sherlock sniffed as he collapsed, once again and just as gracefully, onto the plush, huge sofa opposite my own. "Captain," he answered, "Captain's ex-girlfriend, who is also on board; Captain's brother..."

_Christ, the case deserves its own soap opera._

"So," he concluded, as he jumped up, grabbed his phone and wallet, the cabin key and the penknife/magnifying glass that was his habitual trinket, "we'd best get started."

He held a hand out to me, "Monica Jhennes, would you grant me the honour, of accompanying me up to the boat deck?"

I looked up at his youthful, subtle excited face, and knew my answer before I even thought.

"Mr Walker, it would be my pleasure," I grinned.

_And so it begins._

* * *

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	17. PANORAMA Part III

**REVIEW ANSWERS**

**So I was doing volunteering work for 2 weeks, which were a lot of fun, and I told Anna I would be too tired to write a chapter after a 12 hour work day so... she was so nice to write this chapter with my instructions a bit!  
WOOOH you go Anna! (Seriously I'm not even as half as good at writing fluff like this I think.)  
So big thank you to Anna! **

**Next chapters will be mine again, still with Anna her beautiful additions, but don't fear I'll ask her for some fluff on regular base haha :)**

**To all people who reviewed: **I fucking love you ok. Your reviews make me smile like an idiot who just saw the birds for the first time.

**AND THEN a small surprise for the johnlock shippers here... I'll be making a small fanfiction of 3 chapters about Sherlock and John and some angst and fluff.  
So if you ship them and like to read stuff about them please don't hesitate to check it out the moment I post it!**

**Have a nice day!**

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 17: PANORAMA Part III**

I sighed contently as I relaxed into my dining chair, and gazed out over the railing. Giving Sherlock Holmes credit where it was due, the ship was absolutely wonderful; we had come up to the boat deck only to be pleasantly surprised- well, more so myself than the omnipotent consulting detective opposite me- that the main restaurant onboard had seats outside. We quickly nabbed an unreserved table for two as the sun set prettily on the horizon, bound for the Mediterranean, and scoffed a superb three-course meal and shared a bottle of rosé... a vintage, according to my 'fiancé'.

Said engagement ring clinked against my glass as I took a hearty sip- _the wine is rather splendid, admittedly- _and Sherlock across from me took a last, scrumptious bite of his strawberry cheesecake. He wiped his mouth on his napkin, and I gazed at him in confusion.

"Not that I'm complaining, it is wonderful to see you finally eating... but _why _are you eating?" I enquired, and a smirk spread on his face as he reached for his own glass of wine. _The only one he's had all evening, and the bottle is nearly empty._

Oops.

"The objection of this holiday is to remain as inconspicuous as possible, my dear," Sherlock crooned, and I nearly baulked at the endearment. He leant forward as he said, "And to do so, I must forgo my more logical habits, and eat on the case."

I hummed as I look away over the railings again, and a prim waiter came to collect our plates.

Sherlock beamed genially, and I couldn't help but stare as he pressed a discreet ten pound note into the waiter's hand, murmuring, "our compliments to the chef."

"Thank you sir, I'll be sure to pass the message along. Ma'am," he acknowledged with a polite smile, and removed our plates, returning swiftly to the kitchen.

Sherlock looked at me, and I shook my head slightly in astonishment.

"I can be polite when the occasion demands it, Miss Jhennes," he confided, and winked as he took a sip of his wine. _Yes, I suppose you can... when the 'occasion demands it'._

I thought back to early this afternoon- _was it really only a few hours ago?- _and recalled the detective's fake proposal... not that that could be counted as polite per se, but it was definitely one of his more gracious, pleasantly-surprising moments. Questions abound, I had a sudden urge of confidence to ask the man something that had been on my mind during the meal... the confidence no doubt came from the alcohol I had rapidly consumed, but I wasn't going to knock it.

"Had you practiced your marriage proposal to me earlier, before you actually asked?"

Sherlock concentrated his gaze on me, and I felt a flush creep up my neck. He cocked his head to the side slightly and answered, "Decidedly not. But I was certain you could ascertain that from the manner in which I did... you yourself remarked it was hardly romantic."

_True. _And I replied with as much concordance. "I just... I just wondered..." I trailed off.

He turned his head away and instead studied his crystalline glass before him, and surprised me greatly by asking, "Would you prefer it if I proposed again?"

_What?!_

"I-I'm sorry?"

Sherlock sighed. "I quickly called John whilst you visited the restroom earlier, and he agreed with your diagnosis that the incident was hardly amorous; so I ask again, would you prefer it if I proposed again?"

I nearly stuttered, and set down my glass. "But... why would you want to? The proposal was done in privacy... hardly as if you need to prove a point?"

Stumped, the man opened his mouth and closed it again, apparently speechless for an answer. _Christ, Monica, I think you've broken him._

Leaning back again into my chair, I attempted a joke. "Besides, I was stunned you ever knelt. If anything, I would've put money on you just throwing the ring at me and having done with it," I chuckled, and said ring flashed in the candlelight.

Sherlock managed a shy incline in the corner of his lips, and looked up at me through his eyelashes. The light caught all the angles of his face, and I gasped inaudibly.

_Jesus, this man _is_ beautiful... you've got it so bad, Monica. _My subconscious spied me over her glasses, and sighed with me in unison. _The man you're possibly in love with is gorgeous, but an arrogant asshole to boot._

My subconscious was, annoyingly, correct.

"Well," he cleared his throat, "with me, future-Mrs Walker, you can expect the unexpected." He took another sip, and his tantalising neck bobbled as he swallowed._What I wouldn't give to have my way with that neck..._

Christ, Monica, concentrate.

I nodded, acknowledging the flirty comment, and we sank into comfortable silence. The orchestral band inside the restaurant picked up a smooth tune, and the music washed over us. I recognised the piece as _La Mer _by Julio Iglesias, and wondered if Sherlock did too.

My silent question was answered by his benign smile as he gazed over the railings at the sea- now darker due to the nearly-set Sun- and his fingers tapped on the table lightly in time with the beat. _Of course he does._

The jazz swam around us, and Sherlock surprised me again with a question that, if I thought hard enough about it, I don't think was meant to escape his brain. Still regarding the ocean, he posed, "What would your reaction be, Monica, should I kiss you?"

_Woah._

_Don't answer that honestly, Monica. It doesn't make well for dinner conversation._

"Uh..." I frowned.

He looked back at me, eyebrows furrowed in... fear?... and clarified, "Only because it is a social norm that engaged couples would kiss, am I correct? Of course I'm correct, this isn't the nineteenth century..." he rambled, and I could detect that the man was vaguely embarrassed.

I squirmed in my seat.

"Well... If it's for the case, I suppose I would kiss... uh, you... back?" I replied, and downed the rest of my wine for good measure. From the expression upon Sherlock's face, he looked as if he could do with a good measure of liquor rather than a reasonably tame rosé wine.

"It has to look natural," he murmured.

"I would presume so."

He inhaled sharply, set down his glass, and leant forward. The stare he fixed me with was uncomfortable but I couldn't seem to look away. "We ought to practice," he whispered.

I thought against the urge to look at his lovely lips as I mirrored his stance, and tucked my hands under my chin. "I see," I spoke softly. "And how would one go about that, I wonder?"

_Are you acting, or are you flirting?_

Frankly, I wasn't quite sure anymore. The jazz tuned out and all I could see were his beautiful marine eyes, swimming with a slight drunkenness- he _couldn't _be used to alcohol, surely- and something that I hoped was a slight lust.

"I-I suppose... I would," Sherlock began, stuttering slightly.

I waited. "...Yes?"

He swallowed audibly, and my ego took a sniff at the air. Reaching a brave hand upward, he brushed back my fringe tenderly, his gaze never breaking mine. I suddenly felt hazy as he continued, "I suppose, I would do this..." he trailed off as he closed the miniscule gap, and his lips shyly brushed with mine.

_Jesus H. Christ._

My lips seemed to sting as if electrified, and I wanted more. Exhaling slowly through my nose, I leant in more and deepened the kiss. Sherlock froze, and I dimly registered it was from surprise, and lack of experience.

_You're in charge, Mon'._

I tilted my head, fitting my nose to the right-hand side of Sherlock's, and I moved my lips against his. A rumble from the back of his throat reached my ears, and this time my ego took flight as I opened my mouth slightly. Sherlock mirrored my actions, and I could taste a slight tang of strawberry and... _Sherlock._

Courageously, I ran a hand slightly through the dark, soft curls at the back of his head, and the consulting detective positively moaned. Anxious not to melt into a puddle of turned-on, giggling gloop, I broke away, breathless. Instantly, I wanted back on those soft, awkwardly-shy lips.

Sherlock, equally, seemed dishevelled and he rested his forehead against my own- hands still in each others' hair, and panting slightly against one another's' lips.

"That was," he whispered against my lips. "That was..."

I waited for him to finish; but he abruptly pulled away from me, my hand clutching suddenly at air, as he reclined back in his chair. The calculating, cool consulting detective had returned, and my soaring ego took at swan dive right to the depths of the sea.

The music ended with a flourish, and as the audience clapped, I looked down at my hands desperate not to tear up. _What the hell..._

"Unexpected," I answered, finishing his sentence.

Fingers steepled under his chin, Sherlock looked at me confusedly.

"Th-that... the kiss... it was unexpected," I said slightly louder. Suddenly, the deck was extremely cold and dark, and as I glanced around, I noticed to my surprise that many of the diners had retired for the night, and we were practically alone. _How long were we kissing for?!_

"Yes, well," Sherlock added, "that's what couples do... kiss unexpectedly."

Agreed, but they don't act cold and menacingly horrid afterward, but I didn't voice this. I instead emptied the bottle of wine, still cool from the ice bucket, into my glass... without a thought for Sherlock. _Ha, take _that_ you little prick._

An eyebrow was raised on his behalf in any case, but otherwise my action was ignored.

When he continued not to speak, I could feel the tears welling up. _Escape._

"Excuse me," I quickly said, and flung my napkin on the table as I darted into the restaurant, and fled to the restroom.

**SHERLOCK'S POV**

_Well, that was a development._

He had only looked up just as Monica positively bolted from the table, and all but ran to, what he deduced, would be the restroom.

Sighing in frustration, he leant onto the dining table in an uncharacteristically anxious pose- hands clutching his hair and his mind buzzing with new information.

_The kiss was, as you anticipated, absolutely... wonderful. _The detective started at the term; he was decidedly not the man to offer such poetic, flowery terms. On any other day, with any other woman, he would remark a kiss as being adequate or sufficient.

But the experience he had just undergone with none other than the one woman his newly found 'heart', if he could call it that, now belonged to had rendered him incapable of any coherent thought.

Not only wasn't only pleasurable, but Sherlock felt a swooping sensation in his stomach that startled him as he had rested his forehead against hers.

_Endorphins, serotonin... _he could explain the science easy enough, but never how his heart seemed to instantly break whenever she cried or even frowned... how at night all his thoughts, crowding his Mind Palace, would be of her...

He couldn't explain, for all the tea in China, how he suddenly wanted... _more._

**MONICA'S POV**

I washed my hands and wiped my eyes with a cool flannel kindly provided, and looked into the mirror. My eyes shone a positively azure blue, but I knew it was because my eyes were red from crying.

For a second, I panicked that Sherlock would notice... _But it's not as if he's not going to know anyway, _I reasoned. Sighing, I fluffed up my hair slightly and exited the plush restroom.

Suddenly, I halted.

_I fucking kissed Sherlock fucking Holmes fucking hell fuck._

Taking a deep breath, I regained my composure as I sauntered across the restaurant dancefloor, and made my way back outside to my fake fiancé. He was cowered over the table, hands clutching his hair almost painfully, and my heart sank.

But as I approached, he looked up at me, surprised.

"I thought..." he started, staring at me in incredulity.

When nothing more was forthcoming, I prompted him as I reseated myself, "Thought... what?" I spoke kindly, and leant forward again.

He ran a nervous hand through his hair. "I thought... you would have... left," he admitted.

Smiling slightly, I fixed him with a steady gaze. "Mr Walker," I smirked, "I'm not going _anywhere."_

Sherlock smiled in reply gratefully, and he leant back again; relaxing probably for the first time since he'd raised the original topic of kissing. _Oh god... how awkward._

But we were anything but- conversation flowed as naturally as possible, considering it was Sherlock, and we managed to unwind slightly from the drama.

However, it was getting unbearably cold, and once Sherlock noticed, he inclined a hand, and I took it as we stood. Wrapping an arm around me- _I literally cannot tell whether or not this man is acting anymore... I hope not, in any case- _and we meandered the short ways back to our unconventional and frankly embarrassingly named suite. Unlocking the door with the card produced from his jacket pocket, Sherlock stepped aside gentlemanly, and allowed me access to the warm living room, and I sighed contentedly as I slipped off my pinching heels. _That feels good, _I noted as my toes curled beautifully into the plush, thick carpet.

Hearing the door close quietly, I looked around to find Sherlock once again knelt on the floor. This time (_As if he hasn't bloody done this enough already, the smarmy git)_ he wore a huge grin of mirth as he held out an imaginary ring, asking jovily, "You asked for a better proposal, my dear... will you marry me?"

I couldn't help but snort indelicately, and soon the snort morphed into full-blown laughter. The detective chuckled too, and straightened up.

"That was hardly better in terms of romance, Sherlock," I giggled, "but I appreciate the gesture."

Sherlock grinned, looking pleased with himself, and I suddenly caught a glimpse what presumably was a young, care-free boy, loving and trusting of everyone around him, and almost probably the joker... the prankster and the one that would hang upside from a tree just to scare you out of your wits.

_...I wonder what happened,_ I mused with melancholy as Sherlock wandered over to the sofa once again, flopping down upon it with an albeit more ungainly flourish.

Grabbing a blanket from the bedroom, I wrapped myself up tightly and slumped down beside Sherlock. "So... are you gonna explain to me what this case is about, or will I have to attempt to deduce it for myself?" I teased.

He smirked, "As if you could."

Prodding his thigh with my toe, he chuckled before explaining. His voice returned to its normal metallic, cool tone, "The captain and his long-term ex-girlfriend are attempting to sink the ship- with explosive probably; pretty much the only way they can make a big enough hole with a ship this size... the captain's brother embarked upon an affair with the ex, causing the breakdown in the relationship, yet he is still in business with her; she is the daughter of a billionaire with a fair few contacts that keep the captain in good money, possibly with landowning but more probably with affluent customers.

"Someone else must be in on this... an entity by the name of Moriarty has been knocking around a bit these past few months- heard on the grapevine, and as you mentioned yourself, from the mass-murdered cabbie we encountered near to the very day we met."

I reminisced briefly upon the cab driver's admission that he worked for this 'Moriarty', and had informed Sherlock the next day when I had had enough rest to record my statement at work the next day.

However, I tuned back into Sherlock's explanation.

"Moving on, I suppose the whole scheme _with _Moriarty is revenge on his part for the affair, and her probable unwillingness to participate in the crime... she wouldn't have gotten involved at all, had it not been that she had recently miscarried her and the captain's brother's baby- _not_ that it was a natural death of course; the captain slipped poison into her water at a business meeting."

_Good job you don't question his information anymore, Monica. The truth would be just as tedious as the explanation._

"But _we're _going to stop them, Monica," he added, gazing at me across the sofa.

I nodded, sleepy but alert. "The worst part being that because it's a rich, couples-only cruise, the majority of the ship's inhabitants are affluent power-couples, presumably most of which have children on the way too," I remarked. A burst of sympathy rose inside me, and manifested quickly into a strict determination to stop the accident from occurring.

"Yes," Sherlock answered simply.

Still feeling tipsy, I raised a hand to ask a question. He chuckled, and nodded.

"Are you bloody suicidal?" I asked as straight-faced as possibly.

Once again the detective laughed, and answered, "You already know I have no preservations about my own health, Monica," and he fixed me with an intent gaze, "but should you wish to leave, I can give you enough funds to fly home the next time we make port. Which, in fact, should be," as he checked his watch, "thirteen and a half hours."

I laughed, "No, no, no... I just... I _worry_ about you, that's all."

"You'll have nothing to worry about. That's the point- I'm going to _stop him, _Monica."

Yawning contentedly, I said, "I know you will."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, and remarked, "You should get to bed."

_Hmm... bed sounds nice. _I nodded as I stood. Sherlock rose with me, and smiled. "I suppose I should join you... that is normal, correct?"

_Is he genuinely asking me if sleeping is a normal couple activity?_

...Seems so.

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes it is," I laughed, feeling a little more awake as I crossed the room to enter the bedroom. Sherlock trailed behind me. Grabbing my bag, I turned and smiled at him as I sidled into the en-suite bathroom to change into my nightgown.

_Yes, it's the sexier nightgown but we don't need to tell Sherlock that._

Quickly stripping down to my panties and putting on the negligee, I brushed my teeth and brushed my hair before turning off the light, and wandering back into the bedroom. Sherlock had changed into his customary t-shirt and pyjama trousers, and rested with his hands behind his head.

I nearly giggled at the domesticity, and turned off the main light so only our mutual sidelights lit the cosy room. Noticing me, he gave a simple smile as I walked over to the unoccupied side of the bed, and simply mirrored his pose by resting on top of the covers. As I rolled onto my side to face his profile, he looked over and me and copied my pose, right hand tucked under his face.

"Do you like being a hero," I asked.

Sherlock was temporarily lost for words, not sure how to answer. _But then again, Monica; it was rather personal a question. _He managed to answer anyway.

"I-I... Heroes... don't exist, Monica," he murmured with his eyebrows deeply furrowed. He regarded me anxiously as he added, "And if they did? Well, I wouldn't be one of them."

Suddenly, this man looked so lonely and confused, so childlike, that I instinctively grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight as his eyes widened. I didn't have a response.

_But then again I don't think I would've said one even if I had._

Releasing his hand and tucking my own back under my pillow, I studied him as unexpectedly, his hand reached over to my hip, and traced gently down to the middle of the outside of my thigh.

_Well... this is new. _But in my addled state, I gave a gracious smile as Sherlock glanced back at me for permission. _Why is he doing this?_

All words fell away, however, as he trailed his finger back up to my hip lightly, and back down again. The gesture was oddly comforting, and I closed my eyes happily at the sensation.

"What's on the agenda for tomorrow?" I sleepily asked.

"We don't have to be up until a fair while later in the morning. But we'd best present ourselves up on deck, have a look around... if possible, I'd like to meet the captain... or anyone who could give us some leeway on the case."

I reached behind me to turn off my lamp, and Sherlock did the same.

"Fair enough. Well, goodnight Mr Walker."

"And to you, Miss Jhennes... sweet dreams," I heard him murmur.

We settled down to our respective sides of the bed whilst the moonlight streamed in through a crack in the curtains, but when I awoke unexpectedly a few hours later, I registered that Sherlock had sprawled himself across me like ivy... his head rested on my chest, and one leg rested between my own two, and an arm was slung across my waist and clutched tightly at my negligee as his hair tickled my nose.

Thinking about the perfect, beautiful, sweet, _romantic_ kiss we had shared, I drifted back off to sleep... until the sunlight woke us both us the next morning.

* * *

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	18. PANORAMA Part IV

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**Ello! Yes ugh I know I'm a bit late again, all my fault I was too lazy to write it right after posting the other and bla bla, really I don't have an exact time of posting chapters... oh well sorry again. I'm going to England to meet my internet friend! So don't expect a new update for 10 days... sorry but meeting my best friend is way more important. Anna was a great beta reader again! Oh lovely reviews!**

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**Have a nice day!**

**& For all the Johnlock shippers the new Fanfic 'Trapped with Sherlock' is on my profile! GO CHECK IT OUT. Only if you want to of course. Please.**

**Beta/Britpicker:** A lovely girl named Anna, follow her on Tumblr for her amazing posts: (link is on my profile). She is wonderful and you will love to follow her! If she hadn't corrected this fanfic it would probably suck. Anna you did an awesome job!

**Author's notes: **First of all I want to thank you for reading this story and I hope you will like my first Sherlock fanfic. Unlike my two other stories, I'm going to take this one a bit more serious. I will try to update once a week so my chapters can be a bit longer. (I really need the time because first I have to translate my story from Dutch to English and then my Beta reader (Anna) will have to correct it).

**Sir Conan Doyle created all the wonderful characters, and the BBC gave them their good looks. I only created Monica Smith; the rest belongs to them.**

* * *

**Chapter 18 : PANORAMA Part IV**

**SHERLOCK'S POV**

_Hmm._

Sherlock woke up to sunlight streaming in through the heavy curtains, and blinked his heavy eyes open in surprise at having slept so long, before closely them again in pain from the brightness.

_Head feels fuzzy. Symptom of over-sleeping. Right arm hurts. Symptom of 'pins and needles'. Diagnosis; over slept, resulting in bad blood circulation._

The detective shifted, and instantly deduced the precarious position he was in. He was lying on his right side, right arm stretched out in front of him. As he inhaled, platinum-blonde hair fluttered over his cheekbones, and he realised his position; his rather... _arousing _position. Monica's head rested in the crook of his elbow against his upper arm muscle, and the impossible soft slope of her back was huddled close against his own chest... Her leg was resting behind her on top of his own, and to Sherlock bemusement, her nightgown had ridden up, leaving his own anatomy to be pressed comfortably against the swell of her bottom. To cap it all off, Sherlock thought self-deprecatingly, his left arm was slung over the dip of her slim waist, hand splayed against her breastbone possessively, and kept her in close to him.

_Not that she has objected- even subconsciously- considering her own left hand is interlaced with your own._

The feeling that came with this flurry of information rather interested him; he felt somewhat calm and... snuggly. The words couldn't come to him- he hadn't felt such before. To describe the content and relaxed state his mind and body were in, curled up in an almost lovers' embrace with the woman he couldn't remove _from _his heart, was immensely difficult.

Said feelings, Sherlock realised as he lifted his head and gazed down as the fresh-faced, beautiful girl before him, had increased. So much so from the kiss they shared earlier, that he was utterly happy for forgo his investigation into the case that night, and was happy to just spend his night in her splendid, adorable company.

_And the kiss was spectacular. _Beyond that, the detective was lost for words. He closed his eyes, and slowly relived it. He was suddenly transported back to the moment where her soft, soft lips pressed against his, and his fingers tingled, aching to run themselves through her impossibly light hair. As he lay in bed, he was suddenly aware of him being pressed so closely up to her as his hips rocked against her, and Monica shifted sleepily at the slight intrusion.

Certain that he had flushed beetroot-red, Sherlock untangled his fingers from Monica's where they rested almost upon her breast, and carefully tried to slip his right arm from under her head. Thankfully, she happily disengaged her body from his own, and rolled onto her back as Sherlock shifted back on the bed, and precariously sat up and studied her, still asleep.

Head cocked to the side, midnight hair unruly and green-grey eyes sparkling silver in the sunlight, the detective frowned as he regarded Monica in finer, more focused detail. From this angle, he hadn't noticed just how debauched a state his fake-fiancée was in.

Lying on her back, serene face turned towards him yet half-covered by the pillow, the duvet was resting around Monica's trim waist and her silk nightgown had deliciously ridden up a little further due to her movement; Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably and frowned at the slight show of her delicate panties.

Her eyebrows were set in a slight frown, her eyes relaxed and shut, and her porcelain skin had a barely noticeable sheen- probably from the close embrace they were in, she had gotten hot, yet not wanted to move away from Sherlock. The thought made him practically purr.

Suddenly, she shifted again and she groaned in her sleep as her head thrashed to face the window. With the groan, her hand covered her abdomen. _Ah... her scar from her almost-rape. Of course... _Her hair was still smooth, but her fringe stuck to her forehead a little. Sherlock found himself almost reaching forward to brush it back.

Monica groaned again, this time louder, and she positively clawed at her stomach with both hands. Her head one again swivelled to face the detective, and he felt sympathy at the pain evident on her unconscious face. Monica, as far as Sherlock could deduce, hadn't experienced one of her nightmares since himself and John intervened months ago- but given the temerity Monica sometimes possessed, it wouldn't be impossible for her to lie and get away with it.

Sherlock chastised himself, _the talk yesterday of miscarriages... probably triggered her, god damn it._

"Gah-ah-rgh," she moaned, and Sherlock jolted in surprise on the bed.

_Should I wake her? The woman is obviously in distress... _and it slightly shocked Sherlock to realise that he was vehemently loathe to see the woman he loved- not for want of trying- in evident pain.

"Monica?"

He reached out to her, to stroke her cheek and arouse her gently, when she suddenly screamed in a blood-curdling manner, and snapped upright.

Her hair flew down over her shoulders, and her bright blue eyes flashed as she immediately swung her right hand (seemingly from under her pillow), and whipped out her Buck Mark pistol from under her pillow, aiming it sure and steady in front of her.

_Yes, Sherlock. Let's wake her _before _the nightmare wakes her up, next time. _Funny how Sherlock's sarcastic subconscious took the tone John usually possessed with great finesse.

Breathing heavily, Monica stared straight ahead, ignoring Sherlock who had flinched back and awaited a gunshot. However, she seemed to relax. Lowering her semi-automatic into her lap, she dropped her head, and Sherlock noticed her shoulders shaking.

"M-Monica?" Sherlock asked in his low, quiet voice. He touched her left, trembling shoulder, and whilst her right hand was no-longer clenching her pistol, she was now holding her stomach. "Monica? Can you hear me?"

Instead of verbally acknowledging the detective, Monica collapsed sideways into Sherlock's chest. Frozen momentarily, he recognised that she needed physical comfort.

_Hug her. Arms around her back. Rock slightly. Infant-like. Shush her._

He did what he thought, and was rewarded with her moulding into his presence. "It's okay, it's okay..." he whispered.

Monica shivered then, and clenched her right hand now at his t-shirt. Feeling a dampness on his right pectoral, Sherlock took her soft mewls for her crying, and automatically pulled her in tighter to him. Rocking to and fro, and stroking her hair almost lovingly, he was strongly reminded of the incident after the "Blind Banker" case (as his doctor so _wonderfully_ named it), when he comforted Monica in a similar embrace after her kidnap.

She squeezed his shirt slightly as she continued to sob, and Sherlock hurriedly stalled his own tears at his plight- definitely a new experience... crying, that is. And especially at another's pain.

The sun continued to rise and shine, yet all the detective could ponder was when he would be able to hold Monica like this under happier circumstances... when he would have the right to make her happy and comfort her.

_When I'll be able to call her 'mine'._

** MONICA'S POV**

_"Monica?" _

A slight pressure on my shoulder made my eyes fly open as my hand snapped out from under my pillow, toting my pistol. Whipping my body upright and my scream echoing in my ears, I aim instinctively and steadily in front of me, and I could hear the blood roaring in my ears and the rattle of my panting.

Hours seemed to pass until every part of my body unwillingly relaxed, and my head drooped forward as the tremors started. I was dimly aware of Sherlock beside me.

"M-Monica?" he murmured, "Monica? Can you hear me?"

I didn't trust myself to speak, so I instead did what I needed; I needed comfort, so my body keeled sideways and fell onto Sherlock. After a moment of painful hesitation, his arms slowly wrapped around me and he rocked me as he whispered, ""It's okay, it's okay..."

And I believed him, clenching my fist onto his t-shirt as the sobs came, wracking out of my body without my permission.

Eventually, I calmed enough to cooperate. Squeezing Sherlock and giving him the signal to ease off, I swung my legs out of bed. However, as I went to move, my ankles twisted in the silk eiderdown that had slipped off during the night, and I found myself falling like a log of timber. From my position on the floor, prone, I heard Sherlock quickly leap off the bed, and prop me up.

_Fabulous, just what I needed. _Sure that my cheeks were burning scarlet, I moved away from him... but Sherlock didn't seem to realise that I was merely embarrassed.

"Monica, please," he comforted, bending down in front of me as I shakily sat on the edge of the bed, "I'm not going to hurt you... calm down..." said the tall, curly-haired detective.

_At least _this _nightmare incident happened during daylight. Would've been uber awkward if this was the middle of the night._

"I'm s-s-sorry, S-Sherlock," I stuttered.

The detective shook his head and straightened up. He sat next to me, and tentatively put an arm around me- not as intense as before, but for warmth and companionship.

_It's just a shame that you _are _actually in love with the man, isn't it, Monica?_

Just perfect... Christ, hardly the time or place, thank you.

I looked up at Sherlock, who was frowning at the expression I wore at my internal debate, and his lovely curls looked adorable as he stared concernedly at me. His eyes gleamed silver in the sunlight, and his face was arranged to look so tender that my heart skipped a massive beat.

"Are... are you okay?" he asked, uncertain.

Suddenly, I was angry. With myself, with the bastard who did this to me, with the whole world. "No, I'm not fucking okay," I burst out, and run my hands over my face as he retracted his arm, "I thought that the nightmares had stopped, with you and John around, but..." then I trailed off, at a loss for words at my hopelessness and sudden feeling of loneliness. I fell back onto the bed, and covered my face with my hands, hiding from view Sherlock who was still kneeling on the bed beside me.

I was suddenly very drained and tired as I felt the anger ebb away. "It's okay," I said.

Sherlock snorted; "No, no!" I replied, "it's probably just the case: it's new, the ship's new... and I... I don't know, maybe I just have to adjust a little bit."

All of a sudden feeling tired, I turned over away from Sherlock, and buried my face in the pillow, feeling its silky texture and comfort of goose feathers. I know that this cruise didn't exactly fit the bill, but I had left England to enjoy a holiday.

_And look how far it's got you. _Damn straight.

And not only that, but the lives of not only over two hundred men and women rested on my shoulders, but the lives of their presumably numerous unborn children did too... what kind of conscience can suffer that knowledge?!

_Sherlock's._

Yes, but he's different. He does this all the time. I sighed defeatedly, when

"I'm okay Sherlock, you don't have to... to c-comfort... m-me," I tried to console, but fresh tears sprang as I shuddered. "S-Sherlock, seriously, you don't have to-"

"Maybe I want to, Monica," he stated plainly as he rubbed small circles on my back comfortingly. I looked at him, and I couldn't help but burst into fresh, silent tears. He immediately appeared shocked; firstly probably for a loss of what to do, but then he suddenly pulled me upright and back into a warm hug, and I couldn't help but cling on once again.

After a while, Sherlock released the pressure of his hug (whilst I seemed permanently sewn onto his t-shirt) out of what I supposed to be personal discomfort, he asked softly, "Monica, are you sure you can handle being here? Under so much... pressure, for want of a better word?"

I gave my answer a thought before replying, "Of course. My job prepares me to chase, spy on and investigate people, Sherlock. I would be able to better if I wasn't so close to it. For God's sake, I'll have to cope."

Chuckling, I added, "Besides, I have you beside me." I smiled at him, which he tentatively returned with his eyebrows raised.

"G-good. Are you, uh... Are you okay to let g-go, of me... uh, now?" he asked shyly.

"Of course, Sherlock... sorry," I chuckled, and unclenched my fists. I stood up, stretched, and grabbed my clothes and washbag. "I'd better get dressed... Shall we go... _investigate? _... after breakfast?"

I winked, and he smiled.

"Of course. How could I refuse?"

**SHERLOCK'S POV**

As she somewhat shakily stepped into the bathroom, Sherlock strained to hear as to whether Monica was preoccupied. Not two minutes later, he was rewarded with the hiss of the shower, and presumably Monica stepping into it.

_Hmm... no, focus._

Sherlock reached for his mobile phone on his bedside table, and opened up a blank message.

**John, I need advice. Reply if convenient.** –**SH**

Considering, he followed this up with another.

**If inconvenient, reply anyway. -SH**

A moment later his phone screen lit up.

**_Can't it wait?_**

**No. –SH**

**_I'm kinda busy... helping... Sarah... here, Sherlock. And it's 11pm? What the hell can be so bloody urgent?_**

Sherlock sighed. _Three Continents Watson._

**I will be brief. Monica and I had dinner, we kissed. We then slept together and she woke with a nightmare. I comforted her. What does this mean? –SH**

**_You did what._**

**I'm sorry? –SH**

**_You'd better be fucking sorry, Sherlock bloody Holmes- what the HELL do you think you're doing, sleeping with her?!_**

Another ping came from Sherlock's phone as he read the text, and was even more confused than before.

**_I didn't think you even did... that?_**

**Did what, John? Please do not bore me with your ambiguity. –SH**

**_You know full bloody well what I mean._**

**If you are referring to the turn of phrase, 'slept together', I assure you that it was entirely innocent, and your chivalry (however dated) is appreciated but unnecessary. –SH**

**_'Entirely innocent' my arse... but you _****_did_****_ kiss?_**

**Yes. –SH**

**_Wow... Sherlock bloody Holmes kissed someone. And no one other than Monica Smith... I must admit, I am impressed- did you restrain her?_**

**Very droll. –SH**

**_Are you kidding me? This is big news!_**

**I'm not joking, John. We kissed for the case. We slept together... for the case. –SH**

Sherlock could hear the snort and derisive tone all the way over in foreign waters in the reply.

**_B. U. L. L. S. H. I. T. You love her, Sherlock, and you fucking know it._**

**Not helping, John. –SH**

Sherlock tapped his fingers nervously against the screen, just as the door to the bathroom opened, and Monica exited in a pretty, feminine summer dress. She smiled at him, and walked over to the vanity to dress her hair. Her make-up was beautifully applied, and Sherlock startled himself with John's reply- he had been too busy staring at the woman before him.

_Hopefully, she didn't notice._

He opened John's reply casually as he flumped back down onto the bed, trying not to alert Monica to his secrecy. The reply was not as he expected.

**_That's because I can't help you in this, Sherlock. You've got to do what you think is best, and what will make you and Monica happy. Sorry, mate :/_**

* * *

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